


Scholar's Sorrow

by Melociraptors



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ascalon, Flame Legion, Friendship, Gen, Personal story, Wanted a lot more out of the personal story, durmond priory, honestly they both deserved better, priory antics, shameless OC commander insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melociraptors/pseuds/Melociraptors
Summary: You may be a student now, but you were a soldier first.The Durmond Priory is the crucible of Tyria's collective knowledge and a sanctuary for those who wish to study it in peace. But when a traveler arrives seeking information on Zhaitan, two gifted scholars find they may be the best- if unlikely- team to launch the fight for the fate of the world.





	1. Visitor from Afar

It never seemed to get any warmer at the Durmond Priory. Warming her paw every few moments over the light of a dimming oil lamp did little to ease the creak of the cold in her joints. The walls of stone only looked warm and yellow from the firelight. Even her thick, black fur could barely keep her comfortable.

She hadn’t written much down in the past few hours. Orin, a charr whose upbringing didn’t include wielding the pen as much as it did the sword, mostly stalled and pondered, stretching for facts she thought she remembered about their last run in with the grawl. They hadn’t learned much more than they already knew. Grawl were notoriously difficult research subjects, but Sieran had insisted that if anyone could forge a friendly relationship with the tribal race, it was her. 

Orin had believed her, being new to the priory when her mentor set her mind to the project. The young sylvari was as friendly as they came, though most of the vegetal people were just as naïve as Sieran, having literally been born yesterday. She was kind, but reckless, conducting her research like a mad alchemist. It was supposed to be a peaceful exchange of religious history to be taken down for Priory cultural records, but as all things tended to do with the grawl, the exchange turned into that of blows, thanks in part to her mentor’s actions. 

The shamans of the grawl, Orin noted, were not to be “joked with” about their dragon god melting in the sun and react with hostility toward blasphemy. Orin hoped the tribe would eventually forgive her for the dagger she left in their chief’s chest so that their entire plan wouldn’t be cut short here.

She sighed, setting her quill back into its stand. That would have to do for volume one of their studies. This was her first major field operation with the priory, which had been slow-going to say the least. She didn’t relish the thought of trading any more of her trinkets away to put off the grawls’ threats to take her remaining paw, but the pressure to prove herself a good scholar was ever weighing on her shoulders.

She leaned back in her chair and glanced over at her mentor, who was still asleep on the bench in the corner of the room. Magister Sieran could sleep almost anywhere in the Priory, not seeming to mind the permanent chill that seeped from every surface, which Orin found odd for a sylvari who was used to the balmy, tropical climate of the Grove. Sieran’s mouth hung open and Orin could swear she heard soft snoring. 

Orin blew gently on the ink of her finished page until it was dry to the touch and tucked it neatly into the binding of journal entries she had previously made. The compendium might please Sieran, but satisfying steward Gixx was another story. He had often told Orin that he found her to be an exceptionally good student, at the same time lamenting that she lacked true potential to become a genius. Orin wasn’t incredibly motivated to please a grumpy old asura with a heightened expectation of what “genius” meant. Still, Sieran pushed her to continue under her mentorship with her on her passion-project, at least until Orin found something she could find the drive to dedicate herself to. 

Right now though, she thought to dedicate herself to some dolyak stew after the long day to try and warm herself up from the inside. Orin glanced again at Sieran and then down at her claws. She did have one thing that interested her. But first, maybe just a little practice in secret.

A greenish glow began to grow from seemingly inside her hand and radiated out through the tips of her fur. Spectral black smoke crept up her arm as she extended it, palm open towards the doorknob. She closed her eyes and thought only about willing her hand to reach further, exerting her will on the knob to make it turn. The black smoke billowed thicker until suddenly, a spectral hand shot forth from her palm, catching Orin by surprise. It thudded loudly against the door, missing the handle by quite a few feet, and hit the floor dissipating into a puff of black smoke.

She heard a snort behind her as Sieran stirred in her sleep at the sound. “Still sloppy,” Orin hissed to herself, and padded quietly to the door. Before she managed to sneak out, three loud knocks came from the outside of the door and startled her. 

“Who’s there?” Sieran called out, now sitting up with confusion of someone who was still half asleep. She rubbed her eyes. “Oh Orin, you’re still here! Pulling a late night?”

Orin shook her head and sighed. “I was trying not to. Actually, it sounds like we have company.” She opened the door and at first only saw an unfamiliar sylvari man who seemed just as surprised to see her. He was tall, taller than Sieran, with dark green skin. As he eyed her with interest, someone cleared their throat somewhere around her knees and she looked down to find Priory Steward Gixx wearing what appeared to be sleeping robes, looking rather tired and impatient. 

“Magister Sieran, this gentleman wishes to speak with you about, what he calls, some important matters. Oh, by the Eternal Alchemy, were you asleep and making your protégé do all of your scribing again?”

Sieran’s eyes widened and Orin noticed her posture stiffen. “Not at all Steward! Orin merely offered to rearrange my bookshelves. They’ve been getting…overfull lately.”

Gixx narrowed his eyes at Orin, questioning the truth of the claim as she slid her ink-stained paw behind her back and nodded in agreement with her mentor. “You don’t suppose our young scholar’s time might be better suited for more engaging pursuits than returning your overdue library books?”

Sieran was on her feet now, straightening her robes. “It’s quite alright, Steward. Orin put out a lot of effort during fieldwork today. I think she might even be ready to lead her own expedition soon. It can’t hurt to let her rest.” The sylvari winked at her and Orin wondered why she was covering for Sieran at all. Sieran’s ability to charm others knew no bounds it seemed, and Orin didn’t so feel bad about falling for it all the time, as even Gixx appeared to soften his mood at her explanation. 

“I suppose she does,” the asura agreed, nodding in approval at her. “Well done, scholar.”

The sylvari man who was standing behind Gixx, cleared his throat and stepped from the darkness of the hallway into the dim light of the room at last, revealing his emerald green skin and foliage in the firelight. His face was hooded in places by thin leaves, but his bright, yellow eyes stood out from their surroundings. Despite the fierceness of their color, they seemed friendly. “I hate to interrupt, but I do have an urgent matter I need to speak with my old friend about. Sieran, it’s been awhile.”

Orin had never seen her mentor quite so stunned to attention before. Sieran straightened herself and bowed respectfully. “Firstborn Trahearne!”

The sylvari guest laughed and waved her gesture off. “Please, I hardly deserve such deference. I’m not one to wake a sleeping scholar at such an hour, but I hope you will forgive me and lend some of your knowledge.” He turned to Gixx and bowed deeply, almost to the small asura’s height. “Thank you. I hope I can also be of service to your organization in the future.”

Even Gixx looked positively charmed by him, as he fumbled to put his nightcap back on. Orin hadn’t met many sylvari outside of the priory, but this seemed to be a trait common to the people. “Of course it’s no trouble. Magister Sieran will be your host from hereon. Good evening.” The asura turned and waddled out, placing his palm over his face and muttering to himself about work schedules.

Orin stepped over to close the door, glancing out of the corner of her eye as Trahearne and Sieran embraced. The two sylvari looked so different from each other, but it was clear they shared a connection that Orin had only seen before in her warband back home. 

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?” Sieran asked, offering Trahearne a chair. 

“No pleasure, I’m afraid.” He sat down and Orin noticed his shoulders droop as he slumped forward a bit, like a dignified man who held inside untold horrors. “The priory may be one of the most complete collections of Tyrian history, including on the subject of elder dragons. Of course you’ve heard of the elder dragon that raised the sunken city of Orr from the depths?”

“Zhaitan?” Sieran mused out loud. “I can’t say I know much. Being in the Shiverpeaks, we tend to have to deal with icebrood the majority of the time. But teams from the priory are camped all over southern Kryta lately. They tell the most awful stories about risen corpses shambling through camp in the middle of the night. I’d rather deal with icebrood any day!” 

Orin stiffened, blood running cold from something other than the chill in the air. Trahearne seemed to notice her expression sour and offered his hand. “I’m sorry, friend. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

“Orin Oneclaw, sir. Formerly of the Iron Legion, recent scholar of the priory.” She took his hand gently in her massive paw, but she felt that even for his size, he commanded great respect. She felt small though she stood two heads above him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Orin. I can see why Sieran took you on as an apprentice.” Trahearne sighed and smiled wearily, addressing Sieran again. “Of course. I’ve met some of the priory at your outer encampments, but as often as they’ve encountered the risen, they’ve never come close to finding a way to stem the endless tide of the undead.”

“Well of course not. I don’t suppose anyone here has tried,” Sieran answered. “We’re librarians at best, not warriors. The most I’ve ever done to combat an elder dragon is set an icebrood wolf’s tail on fire.” She winked. “Taught him a lesson, though.” 

“I don’t think sending an army in is going to help us gain ground on Zhaitan,” Trahearne replied. “I would have reached out to my contacts at the vigil if that had been the best option. But sending fresh bodies in for corruption will only make the cause more difficult to combat should our comrades fall. It sounds clinical, but I turned my attentions to the priory hoping we could try to get a leg up using brains rather than brawn.”

“They can’t be stopped.” Both Trahearne and Sieran turned to look at Orin with surprise at her abrupt interruption. Orin stared down at the hook that took the place of her left paw. “It’s impossible. Those that fall always get back up. Trahearne is right. Sending anyone to fight is foolish.” She shuddered. The unflinching walls of shambling zombies that she’d seen, Orin would never forget. The more allies they lost, the more the enemy’s army grew. The undead…they were far worse than the ghosts that haunted Ascalon ever were. If Trahearne was requesting her help to fight, she didn’t care how much Sieran trusted him. She wouldn’t face them again.

“You seem to be acquainted with Zhaitan’s minions. Where have you encountered the risen before, Orin?” Trahearne’s voice was tense, but understanding. His yellow eyes were searching her with a steady hunger for anything that she knew. It was almost unsettling.

“In the south of Ascalon years ago,” Orin replied. “The charr had never seen them before in our territories, but little by little they kept coming in bigger groups until…” She paused. “I don’t even know if they’re still there.”

Trahearne stood up from his seat and appeared both excited and deep in thought. “Undead in Ascalon…I’ve never…”

Sieran looked terrified. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to actually fight Zhaitan!” she interrupted. “Trahearne, is that where you’ve been all these years? You can’t kill an elder dragon! They're...they're inevitable, like a force of nature.”

“It’s alright. Now is not the time for fighting, Sieran. We don’t know nearly enough to launch an assault against such a resilient enemy, but knowledge is what I am in pursuit of.” Trahearne put a comforting hand on Sieran’s shoulder. “You know as well as I do what the burden of a wyld hunt is like. Throughout the years, I’ve seen in my dreams myself, cleansing the blighted lands of Orr and the undead being put to rest so as to no longer serve the dragon. If it comes to fighting Zhaitan in the end, I must do it.”

“But could you do it?” Orin asked. “Could there really be a way to get rid of the undead for good?”

Trahearne smiled at her. The sylvari looked so confident that Orin felt a weight lifting from her heart for the first time in years. “I was born to do so. Have faith.” She believed him. “But of course I cannot do it alone. I’m hoping you and Sieran can be a vital piece of that puzzle. If you don’t mind, Sieran, may I borrow your student for the evening?”

“Of course,” Sieran replied, still appearing to be very worried. She flitted to a bookshelf and grabbed books at random to hand to Orin, which she knew were likely the overdue books Gixx has scolded her for earlier. She could barely see over the growing stack being piled into her arms. “If you don’t mind doing this favor for me.” Standing on her tip-toes to reach Orin’s left ears, she whispered. “And tell me everything he says. He’s not going to get away with leaving me out of this like he’s done before.”

“Will do,” Orin agreed reluctantly and shuffled around the door frame to lead the way down to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! I don't know what I'm doing really. I'll do more notes in the next chapter since I'm just trying to get this ch posted today.


	2. Burning the Midnight Oil

“Huh, nothing useful in this one either.” Trahearne snapped a large tome shut, the snap of the pages echoing throughout the vast underground cavern. It was the host to towering bookshelves stories tall and alcoves tucked away with piles of books one needed to be careful not to topple. The center of the cavern boasted a maze of curved bookshelves, which they had already wandered through for nearly an hour. The library magister on duty had accepted the tower of overdue books from Orin with an understanding glance, muttering about mentors, and had advised them both to keep quiet as several scribes were pulling late nights as well. However, she couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the fervor with which Trahearne managed to move through the massive library.

Orin looked up at the sylvari who was leaning precariously with his back on the edge of a catwalk. Though his dark green skin blended with the deep, wood tones and dim lighting, his foliage and veins glowed orange in steady pulses. She had been leading him around without much of an idea what he was searching for and was starting to drift off on her feet. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but maybe we could try another section?” she called up to him. 

“You might be right. I had hoped Elonian texts would have had some insight into the undead, but unfortunately, there isn’t much that’s new from the past 50 years. No mention of Zhaitan at all.” He was silent for a moment. “Where would the section on magic be?”

Orin yawned, thinking fondly of Seymour’s dolyak stew that just wouldn’t taste the same after it needed to be reheated. Sylvari were capricious creatures. She could be here all night. She resigned, though. “It’s this way, across the main hall.” She sleepily made her way across the library, assuming Trahearne would catch up with her eventually. 

She’d made it just about to the other side when suddenly, a green fog erupted in front of her and there stood Trahearne in the middle of it. Startled, Orin jumped back and yelped. One of the scribes who was hunched over his work, a big and intimidating norn, shushed her.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Trahearne said calmly.

“You did! What was that about?”

“I find it faster to spectral walk when I’m searching for something in a hurry. Don’t you?”

Orin stared blankly. “I don’t follow.” He began to search the shelves he had arrived at without missing a beat after teleporting across the entire library.

“You’re a necromancer as well, are you not?” he called from within a small alcove of scrolls. “Which of these sections houses the books on death magic?”

“You’re mistaken. I was never taught such a thing,” Orin said hastily, but quickly pointing out the exact section on necromancy Trahearne requested without thinking. The sylvari grinned knowingly, and Orin realized she’d been caught.

“The aura surrounds you. I noticed it, although you might not yet be able to notice it in others.” He reached up and chose a scroll that looked like it intrigued him quite a bit. “I’ve been studying the unique magic surrounding death for a long time, Orin. It seems you’ve been dabbling, too.”

Nobody in the priory had noticed before, until now. She practiced her little magic tricks in secret, whether it was away from camp during the middle of the night when she and Sieran were out on research missions, or when she had a precious moment alone in her quarters. She tried not to make it seem suspicious, but that’s all they were really – useless tricks. “Please, don’t tell Sieran about this.”

Trahearne unfurled the scroll across one of the specialized tables the priory had for the section. He seemed amused with this whole exchange. “Why not? Sieran uses elemental magic.”

“That’s…that’s different magic. Besides, she’s my mentor. She’s supposed to be training me in scribing and research. Not…magic tricks.” She hissed the last word. “You know her. I would never hear the end of it if she found out I did this kind of thing in secret.”

“I see the charr have not changed much in their attitudes toward the arcane.” Trahearne scanned the scroll and shook his head, rolling it up to search for another. “I’ll honor that request, my friend, but know that here in the priory, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The gift of control you have over the boundaries of life and death is very rare and powerful if you choose to learn how to wield it. Magic can be a useful tool.”

“I’ll be sticking to my daggers, thank you.” Orin picked up the scroll that Trahearne had set aside and read the inscription on the handle. “Physiology of the Raised Dead, Servants from the Recently Deceased?”

“An excellent read. Looks like the priory managed to snag the first edition, too.”

Orin tapped her claw on the papyrus a few times before making a show of scoffing and discarding the scroll on a stack of other books, but mentally making a note of where she had placed it for later. 

Trahearne once again disappeared and re-appeared several rows away from her. “We’ve known for some time that the undead can breathe underwater. Or rather, they don’t need to breathe at all. This allows them to swim across great distances and maintain a naval advantage.” His voice echoed through the library as Orin approached him. “But the question is, how and why did they come to Ascalon, so far from the epicenter of Zhaitan’s influence?”

“I don’t know what help you expect me to be. I’ve only encountered the undead once in Ascalon, and I haven’t been back there since.”

“But you lived to tell the tale. That is not something many who come face to face with Zhaitan’s armies can boast.”

“You can boast about it if you like,” Orin retorted. “I only managed to escape because the ghosts rose up and instead of attacking my warband, they attacked the undead.” 

This caught his attention. “Really?” Orin didn’t see why.

“Yeah, but they’ll attack just about anything that isn’t a ghost. I grew up fighting them. They’re almost as persistent as the undead due to the foefire, but they’re more like magical cockroaches. Great punching bags for cubs.” She noticed her guest seemed to be deep in thought.

Trahearne focused all of his attention on Orin’s every word now and she could swear he seemed to be glowing even more brightly. “You may be onto something.” And he was gone in another puff of green fog. Orin willed the fur on her spine to lay flat. She wished he would stop doing that. 

“Sir, I don’t see how that’s any use. I still don’t think I can help you.” She was met with silence as Trahearne remained invisible and silent, likely somewhere else in the library. He was almost as much a handful as Sieran was when she was on a tangent. Orin yawned as the silence grew longer. “I can help you find some books on the subject and you’re welcome to stay in the library as long as you like, but I need to get to sleep soon.”

Again without warning, there was Trahearne right in front of her, disappating a cloud of green mist. Orin glared, calming herself from the sudden appearance. “Please,” he said, holding up another book. “Don’t call me sir. Nor ‘Firstborn Trahearne’, though Sieran insists to.” 

Orin recognized the binding of the book he held out. It was one that, surprisingly, she had read a bit of as a cub. The Black Citadel didn’t have as much of a library as they had an arsenal. Their investments were in the physical, but some of the gladium charr down in the underbelly of the iron city sold interesting items they had collected while wandering. Only fools would buy the junk, though it took a special type of bravery to own the book that was in front of her. She picked it up and examined it. The priory’s copy was certainly better kept than hers was. 

“The Searing and The Foefire. You know, in my fahrar they would have considered owning this book having sympathy for false gods.” She laughed to herself sadly. “I wonder what happened to my copy.”

“So you know of it?” Trahearne motioned for Orin to open the book. “I’m unfamiliar with ghosts, although they seem to behave with the persistence of Zhaitan’s minions. I’ve spent my whole life studying the physical undead as it were that I know little of the spiritual.”

Orin hesitantly opened the book to a page she remembered. “The ghosts were brought forth by the sorcerer-king Adelbern who sacrificed his entire people with god-like magic to turn them into eternal soldiers to fight the charr. At first, they were a threat to my people, but as we took back Ascalon from them anyway, they really just became more of a nuisance.” “Fascinating,” whispered Trahearne. “Dedicating all your time to fighting an enemy that never dies.”

Orin raised an eyebrow. That was almost sympathetic coming from someone who spent his time trying to fight the forces of an elder dragon. “We’re charr. It’s what we do.”

“And yet, you seem to have done something entirely different.” He watched as Orin leafed through the book, not paying him much attention as she scanned the pages. “Seeing as you’re also a student of necromancy, I wanted to ask your opinion on something, scholar. I have a theory.”

Trahearne raised his hand and held it out with his palm facing the ground. Orin watched as he closed his eyes and concentrated. A black well appeared on the floor, swirling as if it were coming alive. And indeed, as a head rose up out of the darkness, then thick shoulders, she realized that was exactly what was happening. Though he was concentrating, it still looked as if it were effortless for him to summon. Orin watched in awe as a large, fleshy creature completely materialized from the dark aether below. 

“In my encounters with the risen, especially some of the more powerful servants, they don’t just seem to fixate on pursuing living things, but also those that give off a strong magical aura.” Trahearne circled the summoned creature while Orin approached it slowly with curiosity. “Even though this golem is woven together with flesh, its very being is pure magic, even more than you or I hold in ourselves. Its makeup is fairly simple and pure. Meaning whenever I send my summons to scout ahead, the undead seem to take great interest in them. They don’t prefer to chase the living if a mostly magical being is available.”

Orin reached out to touch the golem with her paw and on contact, found that it was as solid as if it were truly alive. Trahearne touched it as well and as soon as he’d summoned it, it disappeared into black aether once more. 

“The Foefire as its described in the book is simply powerful magic, it’s possible that the dragon is sending out his minions to feed on the ghosts of Ascalon. They’re not truly dead, just spirits who have had their bodies blasted away, but they require a very strong spell to keep them tethered to the physical realm of Tyria. And the most basic thing we know of the elder dragons is that they awaken to consume the magic of the world until there is none left.”

Orin had to admit, it sounded like it made sense. But she didn’t know much about dragons other than they existed. They just…”were”. Just like the ghosts of Ascalon “were”. The thought of two forces of nature struggling for dominance like that, magic and its predator, was hard to wrap her head around. 

“If I’m following your line of thought,” she began tentatively, “you think the risen are coming into our ancestral lands in order to devour our most enduring enemy? Oh…you want to use the ghosts to fight the undead?!”

Trahearne grinned. “Wouldn’t that be fascinating?” Orin didn’t agree on that word choice exactly. “At least we know that these ghosts are inclined to fight and never tire.”

This man certainly proved himself to be Sieran’s friend if he could come up with schemes like this. Orin leaned across the table. “Trahearne, you can’t make the ghosts fight your battles for you.”

"Maybe not," he conceded with a shrug. "But I know it will be worth a try. Because at one point, they fought a battle for you."

For a few moments, Orin couldn't think of anything to say at all. Trahearne just stood there with the expression of a daydreaming cub. "Who _are_ you?"

"I'm nobody special. I'm just a man with a purpose. Orin, haven't you ever felt the spark to do something beyond yourself? It's a compelling feeling that you can't possibly ignore."

Orin didn't think so. Not for years anyway. Since then, her only burning need was to stay away from conflict, safe inside the priory. "Not particularly."

Trahearne nodded knowingly. Orin felt a bit patronized by this, not expecting him to agree with her so easily. She resigned the conflicting emotions with a snort and buried her head in the book. "Look, I'll help you with research, but again, I cannot help you with the ghosts or the undead. If you want someone to come help you, Sieran's a great candidate. She'll be overjoyed."

"Possibly," he mused. The sylvari sat down at the table finally, pulling a notebook from a folded leaf on his side. "Thank you, Orin. You've been truly indispensible. Regardless of what crazy plans I may have, we'll see how you feel about everything tomorrow morning." He winked and began to scribble notes into the notebook, but said no more.

For awhile, Orin watched him, wondering what he was writing. The sound of the scratching of graphite on paper soothed her as she pretended to read her book. Lids growing heavy, she thought about what it might be like to be someone like Trahearne or even Sieran, so eager to do so much. Then her eyes closed and she thought no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I wanted to get these two chapters out, since they've been in progress for awhile. I would waffle around forever if I didn't commit to posting them, so here they are! 
> 
> I don't have any kind of posting schedule but I'll try to do once a week. Honestly, this whole thing was just a bit of backstory that got way out of hand. 
> 
> Also, if you like it, hate it, want to point out a mistake, or whatever, please let me know. Leave a comment or something! I've been out of the fanfic game for a decade, so critiques are VERY HELPFUL. I'm a rusty old hoe.


	3. Snowblind

“Orin! Wake up!”

The high-pitched voice roused Orin from what felt was the most satisfying sleep she’d gotten in weeks. However, the crick in her neck brought her back to consciousness much quicker as she realized she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on the large, oak table she’d been studying at. There was even a splintered dent where the point of her horn had dug in. Her mentor was hovering over her, looking concerned. The books that had surrounded her from the night before were all gone, which she found odd. She didn’t remember putting them away.

“Sorry, Sieran, I guess I fell asleep here,” Orin groaned. 

“Have you seen Trahearne?”

Orin sat up, now seeing that Sieran seemed pretty worked up. She was shifting anxiously and craning her neck over the bookshelves, apparently looking for Trahearne. She glanced around the library at the morning crowd of students that had made their way in. Orin was surprised the noise hadn’t woken her up. No sign of her necromancer companion. “Not since last night, no.” 

“He didn’t return to me this morning to ask anything and if he’s not with you…” Realization dawned on her face. “Oh, skritt. Come on, Orin we’ve got to go after him.” She grabbed Orin’s hand and pulled her out of her chair with surprising strength, charging through the library with her mentee in bewildered tow. They earned many scornful looks from the others in the library as the two of them left scattered papers in their wake.

“That flighty, ungrateful, mulch-brained man!” Orin hadn’t seen her mentor so single-minded before. She couldn’t help but feel Sieran was being a bit hypocritical as she cursed out Trahearne under her breath. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it before they reached the exit.

Orin yelped as they both tumbled out from the library and flames of the massive hearth in the kitchen. While trying to put the flames on her tail out, she knocked a pot of stew onto the floor that was set up to cook over the fire. She looked down at the sad mess of the meal on the floor as her stomach growled loudly, then apologetically up at the norn chef. He was one of the few priory residents that were larger than her. He certainly held much more acclaim. Seymour glared as Orin picked herself up, “Don’t run through my kitchen if you want to eat within these walls again.” She nodded furiously in agreement, knowing he would absolutely make good on that threat.

Meanwhile, Sieran ignored the scene, pacing back and forth across the stone floor. “I knew he would do this! He’s so stubborn when he has his own plans.” She raised a hand and cast a swift breeze across Orin and herself. “Come on, to the right.” At breakneck speed, she bolted out of the room, leaving Orin to apologize profusely to Seymour and promise that she would make it up to him in some way later. She too then blasted out of the room with the speed of Sieran’s air magic carrying her.

The walls of the hallways zipped past as Orin tried to keep up with her mentor and trying to dodge other historians who were standing around. When they eventually were scolded for acting like cubs, she would make sure Sieran took the blame. Gixx wouldn’t be surprised.  
But had Trahearne really just left, or was Sieran overreacting? And if he had gone, did he take the books with him? True he had gotten the information he needed, but he had really made it sound like he needed her help for more than just a history lesson or to take priory records. It felt nice to have a purpose for an evening. She felt strangely hurt.

She made it to the top of the priory onto the veranda and was greeted by a blast of cold air. Sieran was already there and grabbed Orin’s hand once again, pulling her to the edge of the great, stone balcony as the spell wore off of them. The sylvari squinted as heavy snowflakes came down with the mountain wind and pelted her in the face. Visibility was low, the ground just barely discernable through the gathering morning blizzard. The skies overhead were gray. Orin got the feeling that if Trahearne had left this morning in these conditions, he had probably done it with the intention of not being found. That settled that, she supposed.

“We can’t go out and find him in this kind of weather,” Orin concluded with a shiver. “I’m sure he’s gotten what he came here for.”

As Orin turned to head back inside where it was warmer, Sieran didn’t budge. She kept squinting out into the Shiverpeaks as if she would see her friend out there if she just looked hard enough. “No. Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?” 

“I’m going,” Sieran announced. She ran for the stairs, grabbing a stocked supply pack off the side of an outbound caravan. With a drawn dagger, she carved a circle around herself through the wind and crafted an icy shield that she held just above her forehead like a parasol. She was off into the snow before Orin could even shout her name.

At the rate the clouds were rolling slowly across the horizon, Orin guessed the snow wouldn’t let up for another half a day at least. The drifts would pile up fast, making it impossible to continue travel on foot – at least for someone of Sieran’s height.

This was how it always was with their relationship. Orin would be minding her own business, then Sieran would be possessed with some fanciful plan that always required her help. Whether it was worth her time or not, Orin always went along with it. Sometimes she even had fun. Most of the time though, she was grateful she was there to dig Sieran out of her own messes.

She wasn’t particularly keen on helping Trahearne after he had kept her up all night, talking incessantly and bringing up topics she didn’t want to think about again. But she worried about her mentor in the storm, alone and unprepared. Orin sighed deeply as she made up her mind.

Orin rushed to the priory tailor and borrowed two thick traveling cloaks from his coatroom, throwing one over her shoulders and the other under her arm. “Sieran,” she explained. 

The tailor closed their eyes and nodded knowingly, handing her an old leather pack as well. “Good luck.”  
Lornar’s Pass was dotted with peaks and valleys and covered almost year round in snow. Travel was treacherous even on the best days due to the steep plunges and thin paths around the mountainsides. Winter always dug itself in when the final days of the season rolled around. Orin could feel its claws in the biting wind slashing at her face, after only the first ten minutes she set out. She pulled the hood of the travel cloak tighter around her face, holding it closed with her metal claw which was immune to the effects of the weather. 

“Sieran!” She called her mentor’s name into the storm. Where her voice would normally echo across the mountains, the snowfall dampened it. She did succeed in startling some snow owls that flew from the nearby pines, but no response came. She would have to trudge further into the deepening snow. 

As time passed and the snow landing on her body started to become water and seep through her robes, Orin considered just turning back. Sieran had elemental magic on her side. Surely she could deal with the punishment of nature much better than she could herself. With the power to command the dead, but only one hand to do it with, Orin considered the best she could do with her own magic in this situation. Maybe raise a frozen squirrel and hope it could track Sieran down.

The blizzard had begun to limit her vision to only about ten feet ahead, but all she could see were snowdrifts. If she turned back now, she could follow her footprints back before they became completely filled in. But Orin didn’t turn back. Trahearne might have been stupid to leave when he did or he might have actually gotten himself into trouble. Sieran, though…Sieran never planned for anything. When it came down to it, if someone was in trouble, she wouldn’t stop until she helped them, even at the risk of her own life. 

“Sieran!” Orin shouted louder through the howling wind. Still no answer. She was getting frantic, charging through drifts when she could gather the energy. The storm was sapping her strength quickly as her limbs grew numb with cold. Her wet fur was freezing into frosty points on her cheeks and muzzle. 

She finally reached the point where she could take no more. She would need to turn around now or she would be completely lost. In the distance, it almost appeared to be nothing but more whirling white. A tinge of another color seemed to gradually intensify in the whiteout the longer she looked. Bright orange was glowing in the distance, and when Orin noticed it, she felt her energy surge back. Fire!

Orin plowed her way towards the glow as fast as she could, but it faded almost as soon as it appeared. She paused. Had she imagined it? No, there it was again, closer now, but again it faded. Knowing now the direction it was in, Orin marched forward. 

Then she heard it. Through the snow someone cried out. Orin’s heart skipped. “Sieran!”

Through the snow came a blinding flash and a wave of heat as a fireball rocketed just past her head. Past the brief opening it had made in the snowfall, Orin saw Sieran staring wide-eyed at her with both daggers raised. 

“Orin! Look out!” she managed to shout before a hand shot out from behind the sylvari and pulled her down as the snow, obscuring her from vision again. 

Orin made to charge forward, but something grabbed her from behind as well. Thick, powerful arms crushed around her neck cutting her breath off abruptly. She struggled, but she couldn’t even see her attacker, let alone fight their incredible strength. The world faded to black far too soon as she descended into unconsciousness. “Sieran…”

The last thing she heard was a booming voice laughing. “Nighty night, kitty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm on track for one update a week, which is better than I thought! Also, thank you so much to people who actually read the first chapters. I'm really flattered?!?!? I didn't expect anything because GW2 is a little bit niche, so this encourages me to keep writing OBSCENE amounts of fic for it. I want to do some more lore and side stories with other characters too when I have time between updates on this one.
> 
> Next chapter may come sooner since I had it mostly written. As always, comment and call me out on bad stuff or good. I...I am so delighted.


	4. Sheer Cold

It hurt even more to wake up for the second time that day. Orin’s vision was still foggy as she opened her eyes. She was surrounded by blue everywhere she looked. As her sight aligned itself, she realized it was a massive cavern made of frigid, icy walls all around. Everything was so glassy that weak reflections danced along the surface making her nauseous to watch them.

On the far side of the cavern sat two other figures, slumped over and unmoving. Even through her fog, she recognized them by their distinct foliage. Sieran and Trahearne!

She made to move her arms to stand, but met resistance that tugged at her arms. Her wrists were bound behind her to the wall, wrapped in chains. They dug into her skin and burnt with cold when she struggled against the restraints. Though the end of the chain seemed only to be held in place by clear, fragile ice, the chain itself glimmered black and blue. She’d seen ice like this on the backs of wolves tainted by Jormag. Try as she might, not even Orin’s strength could break it out of the wall it was anchored in. She sat back against the cold wall, panting.

With a better look at her surroundings, she watched as several large men entered the chamber. They talked and laughed in deep voices that echoed around the cavern. Orin guessed they were norn from the furs and leather they were dressed in, but they looked somehow wrong. Their skin was sickly and blue. The group of norn approached the two sylvari and began fiddling with what sounded like chains as well. From here, Orin couldn’t tell if they were conscious. Not wanting to worsen the situation, she remained silent. Instead, she watched as one of the norn lifted Sieran and slung her roughly over his shoulder like a heavy sack. Orin’s gut lurched when she saw Sieran didn’t appear to resist.

Now enraged, she began to struggle against her chains loudly once again, which attracted the attention of the norn who had Sieran over his back. “Oi, calm down over there! You’ll break yourself out.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point!” Orin shouted back.

Exasperated, he gestured to where Orin was trying to struggle free, but his two companions didn’t seem to take the hint. Finally, with a deep sigh, the one with Sieran over his shoulder slid her onto the ground. “You two lumps put Svanir’s legacy to shame. Watch ‘er,” he commanded. It was clear that those two were a few arrows short of a full quiver. They looked at each other and then stared at their prisoner on the ground while their leader stomped angrily towards Orin.

Orin knew now that she was in some cave belonging to the dragon-worshipping Sons of Svanir. She’d encountered them before when she and Sieran had first met. They’d been formidable opponents at the time, using the power of an ancient sword made of frozen blood to turn their warriors into powerful icebrood. But since the priory had handily decommissioned that weapon from their arsenal, Lornar’s Pass had enjoyed a break from their harassment.

This particular Svanir was the biggest of the trio, and he knew it. He stood over Orin with his chest puffed out. “Dragon will be pleased we’ve finally captured you after what you did to Steag Frostbeard and our holy relic at Black Barl’s Mill.”

So that’s what all this was about. Sieran had a penchant for making unintentional enemies in the process of her research. Luckily for her, fighting the Svanir was a brains against brawn operation. “I’m sure he will be,” Orin replied with a grin. “What do you plan to do with us? We’re at your mercy after all.”

The Svanir flexed his shoulders with pride at Orin’s flattery. “Dragon demands the sacrifice of all who blaspheme his authority. We even found a third fool who stumbled into our trap. I’ll be blessed with unimaginable power for my deeds!”

Orin feigned a look of distress and made a show of tugging on her chains again. “Oh no! Someone help me!

“You better calm down before I make you,” he growled at her, aiming a kick toward her shins. Orin was much faster. She raised her own sharp footclaws and slashed clean through the leather boots down to the skin.

As the Svanir yowled in pain, his companions noticed the commotion and rushed over, leaving their prisoners alone. Past the norn, Orin noticed Trahearne move. He sat bolt upright from his slumped position and nodded at her. He was faking it! Orin couldn’t help but grin as the sylvari vanished from his shackles in a familar puff of green smoke.

When the injured norn saw his companions approaching, he roared even louder. “Don’t leave the prisoners alone, you morons!” They both took a moment to process this, then turned around in a panic.

Trahearne and Sieran were both gone. And if Orin did this right, she would be, too. She focused hard during the brief moment she had as the Svanir hollered at each other with their backs turned. After a few seconds, the chains binding her wrists clattered to the floor as the links rotted apart in sizzling, acidic chunks. Orin shook her paw off as the poisonous clouds wafted away. “Glad that worked like it used to,” she whispered under her breath.

Unfortunately, her captors heard the tinkling of the ice chains and turned to see her getting to her feet. All three norn were dumbstruck this time, but didn’t hesitate long before taking swings at her. One brought his hammer down, smashing the ice into glittering dust as Orin dodged quickly to the left. Using her claws to gain traction on the slippery floor, she dug in and sprinted toward the tunnel she’d seen the Svanir enter the chamber through. A cloud of green smoke appeared near the entrance and all of a sudden Trahearne was back, waving her into the passageway.

She could hear the thuds of heavy footfalls behind her. “Get them all!” As she passed Trahearne, she lost her footing on the sudden steep decline and fell onto her back. She slid down the floor of the passage, gaining speed as she went. She was frantically wondering how she would stop, when at the end of the tunnel, she saw more Sons of Svanir gathered, their assortment of sharp weapons waiting to impale her at high speed once she reached the bottom.

Thinking fast, she rolled onto her stomach and slammed her hooks into the icy slope. She gouged a long scar into the ice that slowed her to a jolting stop when it finally caught. Above her, Trahearne was sliding with no way to slow down.

“Grab my hand!” Orin reached out for him as he slid past. The sylvari expertly grabbed her paw, again jolting them down with his added weight, closer to the savage norn below before stopping.

Trahearne let out a nervous laugh as he dangled from her grasp. “Thanks. I didn’t think that one through as I followed you.” They didn’t have time to think much more as the horde of norn shouted and began charging up the slope toward them.

“Hold on tight,” Orin said, slinging Trahearne across the ice and up onto her back. Digging in with her back and front claws, she got onto all fours and began charging up the slope as fast as she could. She knew they were trapped at both ends, but she would take her chances against three norn rather than plummet into an army of them. There had to be another way out somewhere above. “Where’s Seiran?” she panted.

“I’m not sure. She was gone by the time I stopped feigning unconsciousness.” Trahearne said. “Thank you for distracting them, by the way. You and I are really on the same wavelength.”

“Don’t thank me until we’re out of here and I can give you a piece of my mind,” Orin growled. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess.”

Trahearne freed one hand from Orin’s shoulder and extended it below. From the floor of the tunnel rose a wall of spectral flames between them and the advancing norn, cutting off the way up completely. Screams of terror echoed from the passageway behind them.

“Are you sure this is completely my fault? I overheard something about revenge against some ‘damn librarians.’”

“You have got to show me how to do that,” Orin said, impressed. “And don’t start this now. We’ve got trouble ahead.” Above them, at the entrance to the cavern, the three norn blocked the way through. Orin slowed to a stop, hoping the wall behind them would hold. The biggest of the three, the one who carried the hammer and taunted Orin earlier, laughed.

“I was willing to keep you alive until Dragon demanded you sacrificed, but you’ve tested my patience.” He bounced the hammer in his hands. “Now I’ve got to teach you a lesson. Nobody makes fools out of the Sons of Svanir.”

“Seems you gentleman do a pretty good job of that yourselves,” Trahearne quipped. Orin elbowed him nervously.

“Keep quiet if you don’t have a plan,” she hissed.

“I don’t, but I think I see someone who does.”

Suddenly, a torrent of water blasted the three norn off of their feet and down the slope, weapons and limbs flailing. Instinctively, Orin jumped over the cascade of bodies. She landed on all fours, using her claws to grip the ice once more to withstand the flood as it rushed around her feet. When the torrent finally slowed, a small, leafy head peered around the wall.

“There you are! Lucky you missed that spell. Not so lucky for them. Great timing on that leap, Orin. Positively cherry!”

Orin shook her head in disbelief and joy. She ran to the top of the slope and picked her mentor up in a tight hug. Trahearne hopped off of Orin’s back and began to scout the walls of the cavern. “We may have bought ourselves some time, but they’ll be back soon. Did you find a way out, Sieran?"

“Not so much found as made,” she said, pointing to a dripping tunnel on the opposite side of the cavern that hadn’t been there before. “Couple of well-aimed fireballs melted right through the wall. It could have collapsed the entire cavern, but…anyway, we have a tunnel to escape now!”

Orin grinned. “Sieran, where would I be without you?”

Sieran looked pleased. “By now, probably a charr-sicle! Well, you get what I mean. Either way, we need to get out of here before those Svanir’s come back and turn us into icebrood.”

Orin didn’t need to be told twice. She scrambled up the fresh tunnel, leading the way out onto the mountainside. The snowstorm was still raging strong, but as Sieran emerged behind them, she cast her icy shield above her once again to block the wind and increase visibility. “I’ll lead the way. Those idiot Svanir won’t find us if we-“

Sieran was abruptly cut off as something burst out of the snow next to her and tackled her to the ground. An icebrood wolf, had her mentor pinned underneath it. Trahearne and Orin whirled to find another grinning norn, robed in black furs head to toe. His face was covered in blue warpaint.

“You can’t escape the reach of Jormag!” Orin watched him raise his staff to the sky, no doubt charging a spell she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of. She instinctively reached to her side for her dagger and grasped it tightly, amazed. These skritt-brained norn didn’t even think to take her weapons from her. With an expert toss, she flung the blade through the air. It made contact in an instant. It pierced through the furs right into the shoulder of the Svanir up to the hilt. He dropped the staff and doubled over with a grunt, clutching the dagger.

“Nice throw!” yelled Sieran. The sylvari had managed to get to her feet again and was circling the icebrood wolf with a mischievous grin and a handful of flames.

Trahearne pulled his focus from his own side and raised it. Orin watched as below the Svanir’s feet a dark black spiral of blackness billowed outward. The norn began to wail and clutch at his face in panic.

“I can’t see! I can’t see!” He stumbled backwards out of the circle and Sieran took the opportunity to strike. She aimed a powerful fire blast at the icebrood wolf as it leapt. The wolf took the hit right to the chest and went sailing into his master, spikes first.

Orin couldn’t help but wince as the wolf collided with a wet thud. Impaled in a hundred different places, the Svanir cried out and lost his footing. Both the wolf and the norn rolled down the mountainside, a tangle of spikes and fur. Unfortunately, Orin though, she’d rather liked the dagger that he’d taken with him.

The three of them collapsed after they were sure they were safe and lay in the snowbanks, panting and listening to the sound of the screaming Son of Svanir fade into the distance. When enough time had passed that they could no longer hear anything but the howling wind, Orin started laughing. She couldn’t control it. It grew louder and more infectious as Sieran joined in, giggling in her sloping, musical way. Even Trahearne chuckled along with them.

What were they doing? Orin guessed they were just happy to be alive, almost forgetting the reason they had gotten into this situation in the first place. Right. She stopped laughing and sat up, suddenly serious and accusatory.

“What were you both thinking?!” Orin yelled. “Sieran, I expect impulsive behavior from you, but you could have gotten yourself killed – and you almost did! And…and Trahearne, aren’t you supposed to be some kind of role model for sylvari?”

Sieran’s laugh trailed off as well. “Oh well, being impulsive is nothing unusual for Trahearne either.” She pointed at him with her eyes narrowed. “I thought you wanted our help! Instead you snuck out without even saying thank you and ran off with priory property!”

The sylvari stood up and brushed the snow off of himself as if he was tossing their accusations away. “Sieran, I know you’re thinking it, so don’t compare me to Caithe. We have different reasons to do the things we do.”

Orin lashed her tail in irritation. This was the thanks she got for risking her life in a snowstorm to save these two useless daisies. “So since nobody wants to own up to anything, I’m going to lead the way back home and when we get there, I’m going to work on my _own_ research for once.” She tossed the extra travel cloak she had brought with her at Sieran. “Trahearne, you can keep the books. Sieran will cover the overdue fees.”

“Orin, wait,” he called after her retreating form. “At least let me explain.” Orin’s ears twitched with curiosity. It was enough to stop her, but she didn’t turn around to face him. She’d had enough talk of dragon minions to sustain her for a month. Trahearne, it seemed, had come into her life solely to exhaust her.

“Orin.” This time, the voice was Sieran’s, and it finally made her turn around. Her mentor hadn’t followed her, but had stayed rooted in the snow wearing the oversized travel cloak to protect her from the winds. “I’m…not coming back. I’m going to go with Trahearne. Please…I’d like you to come with me.”

She made to protest, but Trahearne spoke up quicker. “No, you’re not. Neither of you are.” He sighed. “Listen. You’ve both been instrumental in guiding me towards completing my wyld hunt. But I’ve lost too many friends, allies, brothers and sisters to this enemy. I decided to go to Ascalon alone because I do not know what to expect there.”

Sieran looked offended. “You’re supposed to be one of the smartest among the firstborn, and yet you think it’s best to go and bumble around Ascalon without the available guidance of someone FROM ASCALON? Are you insane?!”

“I might be,” Trahearne said quietly. “It’s best if you both return to the priory.”

Orin knew that Sieran had no intention of doing so. It was like trying to herd moa getting her to change her mind. But instead of insisting again like Orin expected, she relaxed and hung her head.

“I was hoping when you came to the priory that maybe you’d at least stay for awhile. I know you’re burdened with the purpose of your wyld hunt, but,” Sieran paused. “But I’m burning with the absence of one. I’m longing for something. Not that the work I do at the priory isn’t satisfying. Exploring tombs and finding treasures is incredibly exciting. But I miss the feeling of mother’s guidance and love, too. When you came by, I feel like for a brief moment, I felt it again. I understand if you’re scared, but we’re both capable fighters. Please, let me come with you.” She looked pleadingly at Orin, begging her to agree.

Trahearne looked silently at Orin, as if he could hear the sound of her heart pounding. It was true that maybe she could be of some help, but she didn’t know what would await her if she went back to Ascalon. All she wanted was to retreat back to her room in the priory, maybe sit down with a quill and write about the bit of adventure she had today, and after that get some rest near the warmth of a fireplace. A voice she hadn’t heard in a while echoed in the back of her mind. At first, she couldn’t place it or understand the word, but it repeated itself, louder each time. _Coward…coward…coward._ The word made her angry. She remembered when it was chanted at cubs who were in her fahrar when she was young. _What will your beloved mentor think if she knew she was teaching not only a murderer, but a cowardly one?_ Orin felt a fire inside of her that had been dormant for some time.

“I’m not a coward,” she barked, startling the two sylvari.

“That was never in question,” Trahearne replied, falling into quiet thought. “Maybe I was being hasty…Perhaps we should go together. If we could handle the Svanir as well as we did, as a more coherent team we should be able to handle any other unexpected threats on our way.”

Orin pulled her cloak tightly over her ears and nodded. “I suppose having a guide through Ascalon would be a good idea. And I can’t leave Sieran on her own.”

“Who’s the mentor and who’s the student?” Sieran huffed.

Orin smiled a bit, but the voice in her head was still taunting her. _You may be a student now, but you were a soldier first._

Trahearne laughed. He motioned for the two of them to follow. “I suppose we should hike onward and find a place to wait out the blizzard before we embark?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter! This was a hard one to write, but it got done (not perfected by any means, but done. Shoutout to Narnet for proofreading.) The response to the story has been amazing, so I wanted to make sure this one was a good read. Thank you!
> 
> Next chapter might be up in a few days depending on what path I'm planning on the story going from here. But what I do know I'll be playing They're Taking the Hobbits to Isengard on a loop while I write it for thematic inspiration.


	5. The Dregs

_“Your aim is terrible. Watch this.” The adolescent charr crouched behind a stone wall, only the tips of her horns showing. Through the darkness of the night, the blue, wispy iridescence of the wandering ghosts in the field helped to illuminate her targets. She placed the barrel of a long rifle over the wall, resting it on the stones and staring down the sights at her quarry._

_The shot was nearly silent as it blew a hole through the torso of an Ascalonian peasant, thanks to an invention of Grough’s. The ghost reeled for a moment, but couldn’t seem to pinpoint where the shot came from. After a few moments, it continued its vigil in the opposite direction._

_She snickered and looked quite proud of herself before another shoved her away from the wall. “I’m tired of watching your boring gun tricks, Verrula. I’ll show you all how to make a real impression.” He reached to the bandolier on his chest and wound up to throw a long knife he held between his claws, but was knocked off his feet by a rough slap to the side of his head._

_“What do ya think you’re doing hollering and waving your weapons around in plain sight?!” Grough rumbled furiously. The young charr on the ground moaned, covering the cheek that was swelling from Grough’s blow. “Truly the epitome of bravado, you are.” Grough sighed and rubbed under his eye patch. “Stay on the ground like a cub ‘til you’re ready to act like a soldier, Loreius. Orin, you get up here and show that archer out there what you’ve got for it.”_

_The young Orin grinned, shooting a prideful glance down at Loreius who stuck his tongue out at her childishly. It didn’t bother her. They had a bit of a friendly rivalry within the fahrar, just like Issa and Verrula. He would probably sulk for a bit to nurse his wounded pride and then he would really demonstrate his skills to try and win Grough’s favor. But Orin had cooked up something fun to show her mates tonight._

_Without preface, she crouched behind the wall like Verrula had, rubbing her paws together. Her black fur blended with the shadows. She could only be seen in silhouettes and sharp green highlights as she prepared her spell. Green glow engulfed her hands as she peered over the wall just high enough to pick out her target. The ghostly archer was looking off somewhere into the distance with its bow not even at the ready._

_With an imperceptible wave of her hand, a ball of green flame exploded across the distance between them so quickly, Grough didn’t even have time to exclaim before the ghostly archer went up in green flames and vanished._

_“I’ll be a son of a skritt,” Grough laughed. “Wasn’t that something!”_

_Orin beamed. She had worked hard to impress and was even more pleased that her spell had grown to be so powerful. Even Loreius betrayed a look of admiring jealousy past his bitter expression._

_Verrula laughed deviously, elbowing Orin. “With you, we’re going to crush everyone on the battlefield. We’ll show them we’re the best warband in the fahrar!”_

Orin woke suddenly from her dream. Wide awake, she took in her surroundings. The fields of Ascalon from her dreams were still far away. Only the damp cave they had found for the evening’s rest still surrounded her. It was still cold, but the fire they had started earlier was keeping the space comfortable enough that her fur insulated her.

Heart pounding, she sat up and gathered herself. It was only a dream. She noticed Sieran was fast sleep beside her while Trahearne was still awake. He was standing at the mouth of the cave, staring out into the snow-covered mountains. He’d offered to keep watch and maintain the fire through the evening so that she and Sieran could get some sleep. Orin could see that he had done what he promised, but she had not wanted to close both of her eyes despite her exhaustion in case he took the opportunity to leave them behind again.

Orin noticed snow outside had stopped as she approached Trahearne’s vantage point. He was still, keeping his vigil like a statue. It startled her when he finally acknowledged her presence.

“Trying to make sure I don’t abscond again?”

Orin shook her head, though she had been worried about it, and sat down next to him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

The sylvari nodded solemnly in agreement. “You’re welcome to join me. The night air is refreshing and the Shiverpeaks are calm. I’ve always felt at peace when I was here.” She felt the same way, letting the silence between them grow. He was right. The high mountains in all of their deadly glory were secluded. She felt at home here.

She began to think again about the decision she was making to travel so far from it, back into the chaotic homeland of her youth. “Trahearne, how long have you been at this? This whole business with Zhaitan, I mean,” Orin asked.

“My whole life,” Trahearne responded. “Zhaitan and Orr have been a part of me since I awakened.”

“Didn’t you ever feel like…giving up on it? You seem like you might have been a good fit for the priory.”

“Oh yes, for a long time. I felt the task placed upon me was more than the Pale Tree had asked of any of her other children. I was even angry. I wandered Orr without much of a goal for years, learning about the nature of undeath as the opportunities arose, but I never got any closer to fulfilling my purpose.” Trahearne sat down so that they were at the same level, looking as weary as he had when he had first sat in the chair in Sieran’s quarters. “I did spend some time at the Durmond Priory when I was very young. I was naïve then, thinking I could find all the answers I needed in books without putting my life on the line. But it wasn’t to be. I didn’t realize the blood and sweat that was behind acquiring all of the knowledge I was reading. There was nobody who ever saw the face of the Elder Dragon and lived to write about it. It was then I knew why I was given my wyld hunt. I had to be the one to begin that story.” A cold wind brushed against them.

“I can’t imagine…choosing to face such a threat,” Orin said. “How do you keep going every day?”

“Mostly because I can’t escape the things I see in my dreams. At times, it’s only by the good grace of others. Some have even sacrificed their lives to ensure that my mission keeps moving forward.” Trahearne looked over his shoulder at the sleeping Sieran. “She’s still so young. She has so much life to live, places to explore, friends to make. If that was cut short because of me…”

Orin placed her heavy paw on Trahearne’s shoulder. He said no more, but the gesture spoke more than either of them could say in words.

The next morning, it didn’t take them long to break camp, eat breakfast, and start traveling. The weather was much more favorable than it had been the previous day. Trahearne and Sieran seemed to enjoy the emergence of the early spring sunshine from behind the clouds. Their moods had lightened significantly as they chatted about times past together. Orin could only catch bits and pieces of the conversation, but it seemed that the two shared a great deal of history before Sieran had joined the priory. Orin thought it best to give them their own time to catch up.

They reached Hoelbrak around noon. From there, they had taken an asura gate to Lion’s Arch, where the sudden switch from the cold to sticky, coastal heat took a moment to adjust to. Despite Sieran’s insistence that they stay and enjoy the city, they spent only the length of time it took for them to reach their next gate to the Black Citadel.

“On our way back, we’ll spend some time in Lion’s Arch, I promise,” Orin assured her, waiting for the gate guard to wave them through.

Of course, Sieran and Orin weren’t traveling for their usual field research, and even in the Black Citadel, there wouldn’t be much time for sightseeing. They had made plans at camp the evening before to visit the one charr Orin knew could help them. After speaking with Trahearne, Orin had warmed up to the idea of returning to Ascalon. She still thought Trahearne’s idea was mostly madness, but she was now curious to see firsthand if it could work.

“The old leader of my fahrar, if he’s still alive, might be able to point us in the right direction.” She had explained that his tendency to play around with magically-infused items disguised as technology was always a bit of a side hobby that proved itself useful once in awhile. Trahearne pressed her for details about him, but Orin couldn’t offer much beside what she knew from the past. She knew they would be lucky if he was even still alive. Charr that outlived their usefulness to the legions often preferred to go out in style rather than rot away as a gladium or a leek farmer.

She decided she would try to find him. It seemed the least she could do for Trahearne.

Since they had first started their journey, Sieran had been the most chipper traveler of them all. When they were finally cleared to pass through the asura gate and into the the main hub of the Black Citadel, her mouth hung slightly open in awe.

“I’ve heard tales of this place, but I never thought it would look so…shiny and new!”

Shiny wasn't exactly how Orin would describe it. If Sieran was the most excited, Orin found herself to be the least. She swallowed hard as the group took their first steps into Ascalon. If she didn’t look anyone in the eye too closely and kept her priory robes covering her missing hand, she hoped she wouldn’t attract much attention, but that was difficult to guarantee when she was flanked by two vibrantly colorful sylvari in a city full of mostly charr. She attracted glances and grunts from groups of soldiers marching by and received more than a few passing comments on her small stature. She’d gotten used to being among the tallest at the priory, but here, she felt like a kitten. After so many years, though, Orin admitted, it did still impress her to see the marvels of her legion’s architecture and engineering wherever she looked.

“I hope you don’t miss home too much, Orin,” Sieran said, admiring a stand where a grizzled old charr was selling used gears and sprockets. “I know the priory can’t compare to something as impressive as this.”

Orin smiled at Sieran’s obvious concern. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take any opportunity to settle down here. The priory feels more like home to me than this old place.” Her mentor seemed pleased with the answer. Trahearne beckoned them over to where he was waiting.

“I too wish we had more time to explore, but time is of the essence.” Trahearne had pulled a notebook from his pack he had been writing in periodically since he’d first visited them at the priory. Orin had only been able to sneak a glance at the pages once or twice without looking too suspicious. He appeared to write in frantic and messy New Krytan that Orin had difficulty reading. Before she could catch a glimpse of his newest note, he had already flipped it closed. “Orin, you mentioned last night you knew someone who could help us with our plan?”

“Yeah, but it’s not likely we’ll find him in the upper city. Follow me.”

The trio finally emerged from the tunnels of the city’s arena to the lower city, where the sound of rushing water greeted them. It was a sudden change from the upper city where metal and iron towered above them. The entire city was now above their heads with no windows or openings to the outside world.

Sieran looked over the railing of the suspended platforms that made up the foundation of the underground quarter at the clear waters and blooming plants that contrasted dramatically with the steel city overhead. The moss that covered the wet rocks glowed with luminescence. “Your people call this ‘the Gallows?’ I find it rather lovely!”

Orin removed her cloak’s hood for the first time since she arrived. It would be less risky to show her face down here. Around her, all manner of charr went about their business. Some sat on the street selling useless trinkets and cracked pots. Others bartered to sell rusty weapons they no longer had a use for. The citizens who dwelled here were the least useful, the once-great warriors of the legions who were left to live out their lives in obscurity beneath the city. They’d simply lived too long to die as heroes. Orin shivered as she observed what could have been her fate had she not gotten outright banished, though most charr believed that would be even worse fate than being condemned to the gladium canton. “It’s a terrible place to be a charr. It’s where your pride goes to die.”

“Then I am sorry to know that your friend resides here,” Trahearne said.

Orin couldn’t even be sure if he did live here, but she knew her old primus better than anyone. “Grough grew out of his warrior prime long before I was born, but he sure could instruct a gang of impressionable cubs.” Orin smiled fondly. “When he started to go blind and couldn’t teach us anymore, we used to sneak down here to visit him at night to complain about our new primus and get lectured by Grough for misbehaving, almost like we missed it.”

“Hey, plant thing! You’re standing on my property!” The yell was grumbly and deep, and Trahearne turned to see a clearly old and blind charr calling out to him. At first, he wasn’t sure that the the charr was referring to him. He was still quite massive compared to the sylvari, sitting against a wall and glaring sightlessly in their direction. The “property” didn’t appear to be much more than the few yards in front of the shack he was leaning against. With a large sniff, the charr called out again. “You’d better move along before you aggravate my allergies.”

“Well, yank my tail, it’s just who I was looking for!” Orin called. The blind charr softened his expression and looked with his milky eyes somewhere just past Orin, but she could tell he recognized her voice.

With another long sniff, he hopped to his feet with a grunt. “Orin? I’ll be damned…it’s really you!” He opened up his arms inviting her for a hug, but instead, Orin ran up from the side and batted him on the side of the head with her paw. He staggered and roared with laughter. “You’d hit a blind old fool with his guard down? I see I taught you well, cub.”

“Sieran, Trahearne, this is Grough Heartless. When I was young, he was the primus of my fahrar,” Orin explained. “He knows more about ghosts and magic than anyone. Well, aside from you, Trahearne.”

Sieran bowed. “Mister Heartless, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Grough looked displeased. “You vanish from the Citadel for 6 years, and you come back with these two? I thought you’d been banished. I didn’t realize you’d gone soft to go frolick with the flowers.”

Sieran frowned and approached Grough indignantly. “I’m Orin’s mentor! She’s a prominent scholar with the Durmond Priory, which is a respectable institution, might I add.”

“Your kind are too cheerful for me. Never trust anyone who trusts everyone.” Grough coughed wetly and spat on the ground. Sieran was far from charmed.

“Grough, they’re my…they’re like my warband now. I’m going to ask you to treat them that way.”

“Whatever you say, cub. You always were the oddball of the fahrar and I couldn’t stop you from going your own way then any more than I can now. I don’t trust ‘em though. Something seems…unnatural about ‘em.” He lowered his voice. “But I bet those smarty-pants up in the book-castle are teaching you how to really wreak havoc with that magic of yours, eh?”

Orin slapped a hand over his mouth as quickly as she could, but it was too late. Orin whirled on her mentor only to see Sieran’s shoudlers sink visibly. The look on her face was the most pure expression of betrayal Orin had ever seen. The damage was done. “Oh dear,” Trahearne sighed.

“You were keeping your magic a secret from me?” she said, her voice wavering.

Orin felt like she’d been punched in the gut. After all of the painstaking effort she’d gone through to conceal it, to keep Sieran safe, of course Grough and his big mouth blew it all. “It’s not like that…It’s not magic like yours. I can’t just use it when I feel like it.”

“Sieran, I understand you’re hurt,” Trahearne said, coming between the two of them and advising them to focus. “But now isn’t the time to discuss this.”

“I told you,” the old charr said. “About trusting everyone. Looks like that goes for you too, weeds.” Orin glared at Grough, but sighed in exasperation when she remembered her withering glances had no effect on him.

“Grough, we came to find you because Orin tells us you are quite skilled with provoking the ghosts.” Trahearne asked, taking charge of the situation. “Is that true?”

The strong-jawed charr scoffed. “Of course I am. Obviously I’m not as good of a shot with my ghost rifle as I used to be, but I can still taunt an Ascalonian ghost out of the grave with the help of my old machine. And just a touch of magic.” He winked and felt his hands up the wall behind him to pull a metal sheet sideways with a screech. Behind the makeshift door, he revealed a dark workshop that seemed too small for a charr of his size. “Follow me.”

Orin peeked her head inside, while Trahearne lingered respectfully in the doorway, knowing there would not be room for even two charr in the shack. Sieran watched from a distance with her arms folded.

“Don’t touch anything,” grunted Grough. “None of this is particularly ‘state-sanctioned’ paraphenalia.” There were varying piles of metal scraps and some intimidating looking weapons mounted on the walls. A tattered and dirty Iron Legion flag hung in the corner of the shack. Grough knelt down and dug around in one of his iron boxes, feeling around for something.

“Should have something in here that will interest you. Back in my younger days, I used to gamble with those asuran inventors who passed through the Citadel and stumbled in the Serrated Blade tavern. Fortunately for me, the little guys couldn’t hold their firewhiskey. Aha!” He struggled to pull out what looked like a small canister with brushed metal caps at the top. He handed it to Orin – or he seemed to mean to, but Trahearne smiled and took the canister instead, examining it with intrigue.

“I remember this,” Orin said. “You used to take us out to the graveyard and toss this into the middle of it. You’d watch us fight ghosts until we either passed out from exhaustion or you got hungry and went home.”

Grough laughed. “My secret weapon and best training device for green cubs like you. The asura knew how to collect magical energy from the land and harness it for use in containers just like that. It also has the tendency to pull the ghosts from their graves whenever I activate it. I could’ve been an asuran genius myself with a discovery like that.”

Trahearne set the canister down gently on the cleanest spot on Grough’s table he could find. “Well I suppose that confirms our theory. Better be careful with that in the city,” he mumbled to Orin. “It must draw the ghosts out by trying to consume the magic that makes up their form.”

“Well I at least know from first-hand experience that it really makes them angry. Does it still work?” Orin asked Grough.

“Those asura make damn good machines. They last for centuries, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t, even after collecting dust all these years.” Grough coughed harshly again and spat on the floor of his own shack. Orin couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor old charr. He’d been a fierce warrior at one point and she’d looked up to him as a cub. One of the true prides of the Iron Legion. And yet, even someone like him could end up in the slums of the citadel, reminiscing on the good times and growling at cubs and even sylvari with suspicion.

“Great! I’d like to purchase this from you,” Trahearne said, pulling several gold coins out of his pack and placing them in Grough’s massive paw.

The charr felt the weight of the coins in his palm and grinned. “Hey, you’re alright for a weed. I would have given it to Orin for free, but if you insist.”

“Consider it insurance, my friend. What we have planned, it may not come back in one piece.”

Grough nodded. He grabbed a damp, moth-eaten knapsack from under a table and slipped the canister inside of it. “In that case, when you go to leave the Citadel, make sure you sneak out the bottom of this place. The sewers ain’t nice, but you don’t want to be caught with something like that by the guards in the upper city. They patrol almost all the main entrances, but not the more ‘unsavory’ exits if you catch my drift.”

Sieran took the bag gently from Grough and put it on her back. Orin and Trahearne looked at each other, pleased. “Thank you, Grough. I promise I’ll find some way to pay you back for…everything,” Orin said earnestly.

“Huh, your friend already took care of that for you, cub.” He shook the gold coins in his fist. “I ain’t that sentimental, but I guess since your legion doesn’t give a damn about you anymore so whatever you’re going to do, go and make me proud.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was so fun to write, y'all. Some fun facts: Grough Heartless is actually an NPC you can find in the Gladium Canton who is really suspicious of sylvari. Maybe because he's blind, the devs intended him to be a kind of oracle that foresees certain events that occur in LWS2 if you happen to actually talk to him? Hm... Anyway, he doesn't really have any solid backstory, but I found his general dialogue to fit fairly well with the character I needed to create, and thus he became Orin's primus and I wrote him to be more of a cantankerous grandpa figure (you kids get off my lawn.) I'm very fond of him.
> 
> For those of you who are not well-versed in charr culture, a fahrar is kind of like a cross between a military academy and a day care. Young charr don't live with or really have attachments to their biological parents, and are placed into their legion's fahrar as cubs to be trained as warriors. 
> 
> Next chapter coming soon! I was lazy this weekend and didn't work on it much, but I will. >u>


	6. Attonement

The three of them left Grough’s shack, trying to blend in with the rabble as much as possible. Orin wore the knapsack on her own back, feeling that keeping it close to her body would somehow lessen suspicion. She knew that everybody was probably minding their own business, but she couldn’t help but fear that someone would call her out as a fugitive.

“Well he was…very helpful,” Sieran said as politely as she could. Orin noticed she was keeping her eyes on the ground, purposely avoiding her. It was just what she’d feared would happen. To her left, Trahearne was conveniently observing his surroundings in a bad attempt to avoid getting involved. Useless daisy, Orin thought.

“Look, Sieran. I know I owe you an explanation about…about why I never told you about me using magic.”

The sylvari whirled on Orin and for once managed to look truly intimidating. “I’m apparently not worth an explanation at all!” she huffed. “I thought you trusted me.”

Stopped in her tracks, Orin sighed. “Please…it’s not what you think…whatever that may be. I guarantee it.”

There was nothing but dead air as Sieran turned her nose away and kept walking away. The silent treatment -she not so fondly remembered her fahrar-mates doing the same thing when they were young. She could have sworn she heard Trahearne trying to contain his laughter behind her.

“Let me try something to help bolster the dialogue between you two,” he said, placing a hand on Orin’s shoulder reassuringly.

As he walked to catch up to Sieran, Orin hissed. “I swear, if you say ‘I told you so’ in any way, I’ll prune you in your sleep.”

But Trahearne didn’t hear her. He pursued Sieran from the tunnels out to the vast craftsman’s square of the upper city where the bustle of civilians drowned out any words Orin could pick up from a distance. She watched him offer what looked like an apology on her behalf. Sieran’s face was pure displeasure as she glanced at Orin only long enough for her to get the gist. Orin felt a sea of guilt bubbling in her stomach. It wasn’t the end of the world that her closest companion found out that she’d been hiding her ability to animate dead rats for amusement, but what if she wanted Orin to try to do more than that when they were out in the field?

When she stepped out of her own thoughts again, she saw Trahearne was beckoning her over and that Sieran’s expression seemed to have softened a bit.

“We’ve all had quite a long day, and everything seems calm,” Trahearne said. “There’s no harm in taking a break before we get into our studies. When was the last time either of you took a trip just for pleasure without doing any research?” Her mentor seemed to consider this for a moment as Orin approached, catching the tail-end of the conversation. From what she heard, a little break didn’t sound like a bad idea.

“I have been working a lot lately,” Sieran mused. “And it’s not every day I visit a new city.”

Trahearne winked one of his yellow eyes at Orin, urging her to play along. He certainly knew how to play on Sieran’s love for distractions. “S-sure. And uh, I bet we could all use something to eat. No use going out into the field on an empty stomach.” Now that she mentioned it, she remembered she had not eaten anything since the morning. The thought of stopping by an old-fashioned charr barbeque for some homemade meat on a stick sounded incredible. Her stomach growled loudly, adding its two cents to the conversation.

Sieran looked pensive, but agreed quickly. “Fine. But Orin’s paying.”

Orin was incredulous. Sieran rarely budged when her mind was set on something. “Where did you learn to mediate like that?” she whispered in Trahearne’s ear.

The sylvari grinned, glowing with effortless wisdom. “Let’s just say I could teach Sieran a thing or two about negotiating with the races of Tyria. Also, I’ve known her since she awakened. The promise of food and drink is a powerful motivator. But you’re not out of the woods yet, friend.” Orin certainly related and nodded in agreement.

“Right,” she sighed. “I know a place.” She lead them through the city streets, the two sylvari trailing behind and speaking in low voices that made Orin burn with curiosity. More than that, how was she going to get Sieran, someone who had been encouraged to study magic all her life, master it, embrace it, to understand that what power Orin possessed was better kept within? Those who knew about it and fostered her studies before had ended up dead. It seemed impossible to wield the power of death without causing harm.

But then again, there was Trahearne. She’d never met anyone like him who commanded magic with such ease. He was so full of life and vibrance. What she saw him do so far seemed powerful, and she _was_ fearful of it, although she had noticed that Sieran didn’t seem to be. But she knew Trahearne in ways Orin didn’t. She wouldn’t want to be his enemy after seeing him walk right out of his binds in their encounter with the Svanir as if they weren’t even locked. He’d summoned a wall of spectral fire that was impassable by the most brutish of norn. He’d even created a servant from the life force of the soil. She was also filled with a familiar excitement at the thought of seeing what damage he could really do in battle.

She quashed that feeling quickly though as the guilt boiled up her throat again. Battle was the last thing she wanted to be involved in.  
It was too bad she still had an emotional fight ahead of her.

 

“I’m not mad that you’re a charr who does magic! They’re a dime a dozen in the priory.” Orin couldn’t tell if Sieran was flushed from the firewhiskey cider or just plain anger, but she was already slurring and punctuating her words with force, clutching at her massive mug. “But you LIED to me about it!”

This might have been a bad idea, she thought, regretting ordering Sieran a charr-sized drink. However, a sip from her own mug of ale and encouragement to hash it out from Trahearne willed her to stick by her decision to talk it out. He was sipping on his own small glass of ginger ale, eyeing Orin with curiosity. “Is it really lying if you never asked me about it in the first place?” she offered.  
Both Trahearne and Sieran – and Sieran noticeably louder – stated “Yes.”

She frowned. “I’d never tell anyone who didn’t already know. You don’t understand.” Maybe it was time to finally explain everything.  
Sieran took a large swig from her cider and slammed the mug down. “Well maybe I’d like to know who my mentor and supposed closest friend really is.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to understand your motivations as well,” Trahearne added. “It doesn’t do to build a team on a foundation of secrets.” Orin knew he was right. It reminded her so much of what Grough had told their brand new warband when they had first formed for training. That thought weighed heavy on her heart.

“Seven years ago…every member of my warband died.” There was nothing but the sound of other patrons going about their own business. Orin noticed she’d been holding her breath and exhaled. “Because of me. Because of my magic.”

She waited for a word from Trahearne who always seemed to know what to say, but when she looked at him, he was simply waiting in respectful silence. Even Sieran had nothing to say except, “What happened?”

 

”Ten gold says that the Snout warband backs out and doesn’t show.”

“Narses, we all know you haven’t got ten gold to ante. But I’ll agree with you that they’re too busy sniveling in their barracks.” Loreius was crouched in the dark forest clearing, sharpening his knives and laying them out in neat rows along one of the cloths he used to shine them. Orin sat among him, Verrula, and the rest of her newly named warband. They’d gone through the formal ceremony earlier that day with all of its military pomp and circumstance to receive their name – the Claw warband – but it was mostly formality held by the top brass. The five of them had been a team ever since they were cubs, but this night, they finally became full soldiers of the Iron Legion.

It had been Loreius’s idea to sneak out after lights out for something of a “real celebration” but Orin had come up with the contest. A competition among the other graduating warbands to see who would be the valedictorian. And everyone thought it was a great idea. It would be their last chance to have a friendly competition against each other before transitioning to the hard work of active duty.

The mood was high as the charr lounged in the grass, talking about the future and watching fireflies. Orin laid in the center of the clearing, gazing at the stars. A lot had changed during their years in the fahrar. Narses had finally hit his growth spurt just a year ago Orin had not. Loreius had managed to get his temper under control. Even Verrula and Issa had at last ended their bitter feud over whether rifles or pistols were the superior gun and became close. Even through the strife, as Orin listened to them laughing and teasing each other, she felt regret in her heart that this might be the last time they got to be together with this kind of levity.

Narses snorted, hefting his large frame off the ground. He had a habit of puffing his mottled gray fur up to look even bigger than he already was. “You all picked your warband names yet?”

Verrula was the first to shout out. “Powderclaw! I picked Powderclaw.” She jiggled a small bag of gunpowder she held in her claws. “You know, like for rifles?”

Narses slapped his knee and laughed. “Real intimidating, Verrula. I can barely stop my knees from quaking. I picked Strongclaw for myself. Narses Strongclaw.” He flexed, as if to prove the name suited him the best.

“Real inspired,” Verrula quipped back. “Never would have expected it. Orin, what did you pick?”

“Orin Sharpclaw.”

Narses looked shocked. “What? You couldn’t think of anything cooler than that? What about…ooh Deathclaw! Or Reaperclaw?”  
Orin shook her head in amusement. “I was trying not to be heavy-handed.”

Narses then looked expectantly at Issa, the smallest of their warband. She didn’t look up, her face hidden mostly by her hood as she adjusted her gauntlets. “Poisonclaw,” she stated simply.

“Well you’re the only one left, Loreius. I saved the best for last,” Narses said.

Loreius picked up one of his knives and examined it. It glinted in the moonlight. “Loreius Clawshine.”

Orin let out a guffaw and Loreius, taking the reaction as an insult, threw his knife in her direction. Thankfully, Orin was faster. She exhaled a cloud of corrosive poison in front of her face, reducing the thrown knife to only a fine puff of rust as it passed through. She shook the dust of its remains off of her face, still laughing.

“Gross,” Issa observed as the toxic burp dissipated.

“Calm down, Loreius,” Orin said. “It’s only a joke. Everyone knows you’re the only charr who’s afraid to get his claws scuffed, so it suits you perfectly.”

His expression was unreadable and Verrula seemed tense, looking from one to the other. Eventually, Loreius broke the silence with a chuckle. “Of course. It was the name of my father’s warband. He was an honorable soldier, unlike any of you ragtag lot. Also, I liked that knife.”

“Feeling a bit tense?” Verrula ventured.

Loreius shrugged. “I’d just rather we get to leave the fahrar with some dignity and a victory under our belts.”

Narses straightened up. “Ah, good timing. I see the Snot warband approaching now,” he announced tauntingly.

Two other small groups of charr were indeed approaching from between the trees. “That’s the Snout warband, you dainty-paws!” shouted the leader of the group. “And we came prepared to win!”

Loreius shoved his knives back into the holster he slung across his chest and neatly folded his cleaning cloth. He grinned. “Showtime, guys.”

The two warbands stood in two semi circles facing each other. The sound of tails lashing the leaves of the forest floor was the only sound that could be heard as Orin stepped forward.

“The rules of this competition are simple. Whichever warband kills the most ghosts in three minutes wins,” she explained.

“And the loser has to clean out the barracks of the champions,” added Narses. “I’ve been cultivating a slime mold under my mattress for weeks just for you! Hahahaha!” Issa crinkled her nose in disgust.

“Oh, we agree to those terms,” replied the leader of the Snout warband. “Tiny still wets the bed. You’ll never get the smell out of your fur.” A little charr standing next to him piped up in protest, but Orin continued.

“Just beyond this clearing are the ruins of some Ascalonian temple. It’s labyrinthian in there and the passageways are thick with ghosts. A representative from each warband with accompany the other into the ruins to keep track of how many ghosts were slain to avoid cheating. We will flip a coin to determine who starts.” Loreius and the leader met Orin in the middle of the clearing, where she showed them a gold coin she held in her palm, turning it to both sides so they could see it was not a fake.

“We’ll take heads,” Loreius declared, eyeing the rival captain with a smirk. His opponent seemed to brush it off.

“Tails then.”

Orin flipped the coin. She caught it in one hand and flipped it onto the back of her other paw.

“Tails.”

The Snout warband erupted in jeers. “Perfect. More ghosts for us.” As they readied their weapons and walked past Loreius and his peers, they looked confident and hungry.

Verrula called after them. “We can just take it easy since we’ll know the number we have to beat. Keep them honest, Issa.”

The thief nodded and disappeared into her cloak of stealth to follow the rival warband into the ruins.

Three minutes felt like forever to Orin as the four of them watched the entrance of the ruins, hardly blinking. Loreius was running his hands across the handles of his knives. They couldn’t even hear the sounds of battle from the ruins. The walls were thick inside. The silence was eerie.

Orin spoke just to break the tension. “Loreius, what do you think our lives are going to be like now that we’re a real warband?”  
The rust-colored charr let his paws rest, still staring the ruins. “Same as always, I guess.”

“We’ll probably just fight tougher ghosts. That’s all I ever hear Ghostbore talking about,” Verrula added. “”Gotta dismantle this wall. Gotta polish that cannon.’ Can’t be too bad, right?”

Narses patted Orin on the head as gently as he knew how. “Nothing to worry about. We’ve all got each other.”

There were cheers in the distance as the Snout warband filed out of the ruins one by one. They looked triumphant. “That’s thirty-two ghosts!” Issa brought up the rear. She gave her warband a thumbs up from the distance, letting Orin know that the count was legitimate.

“We can kill more than that in half the time!” Narses shouted. He turned eagerly to Orin and Loreius. “So what’s the plan?”

The plan was that they’d get in and piss off a few ghosts. Then once they’d regenerated, Orin would use her magic to raise the bodies of the ghosts to fight against them. “I’ve been practicing,” Orin whispered to the group. “I can keep about 3-5 minions actively fighting, but it takes some concentration, so I’ll need you to keep any stray ghouls off of me.”

Issa nodded. “I’ll distract them.”

The Claw warband approached the ruins with their referee from the Snout warband, Tiny, in tow. Weapons at the ready, Loreius gave the signal for the time count to begin. They charged in through the narrow entrance and into the front hall, fanning out around the ghosts inside. There were only two or three, but easy targets for the time being.

Orin grinned, stretching her arms out toward the tombs lining the walls. The stones shifted as she pulled her claws higher into the air. With a crack, skeletal arms appeared from the rubble, reaching up just like Orin. One shambling corpse after another tumbled from their graves and onto the floor, grabbing for the ghosts at Orin’s command.

Noticing the danger approaching, the ghosts drew their spectral bows and began firing as another pulled a warhorn and blew a distress call.

“More on the way!” Verrula steadied her rifle against her shoulder and blasted one of the ghosts with the bows into mist. “Perfect.”  
And it was perfect. As more ghosts appeared from the floor to fight off the invading charr, the warband cut them down. Orin brought more of the Ascalonians’ own corpses to life to do battle with themselves, while Issa kept the rogue spirits off her back. Even Loreius seemed to be having fun as he threw knife after knife through the spirits and grabbed them from where they stuck in the walls. “Like shooting fish in a barrel!” he cried.

The warband was at their best. Which made it all the more shocking when things went horribly wrong.

Orin’s minions were in prime form. She found she could summon more than before with the same level of concentration. They’d nearly obliterated every ghost that confronted them. “At this rate, we’re going to run out of ghosts to kill!” she laughed. She let her minions collapse as she released the magic from them. But some remained standing, looking almost more lively than before. They turned to face Orin, as if studying her with some intelligence.

“Your three minutes are up!” piped Tiny, who looked upset. “You already beat us, so you can stop showing off now.”

Loreius stowed his remaining daggers and made to walk across the room and collect one that was still sticking out from the stone wall. “I’ll never stop showing off,” he said with a grin. As he made to grab the handle of his knife, a hand burst forth from the dirt floor and gripped his ankle. He shrieked and tried to pull his foot from its grasp. “Not funny, Orin! Call it off.”

Orin raised her own hands. “It’s not me!” Issa and Verrula looked at each other with unease.

Everything happened fast. The walls behind Loreius burst in a shower of stone, burying him instantly in a pile of ruined rubble. Narses howled and charged to where his comrade was trapped underneath, but nobody could see anything indicating Loreius was under there.

What they did see appearing from the darkness were horribly mangled corpses, staggering through the fallen walls. There was no way to count how many, but to Orin, it looked like a tide was flowing as they zombies clambered over each other into the chamber. The skeletal beings Orin thought were her minions started to advance toward her, proving that she had been sorely mistaken about her control over them.

She was frozen. They all were. Except for Narses, who had collapsed to his knees to clear away the stones in massive fistfuls, calling Loreius’ name.

Issa was the first to act. “Get to safety. Leave. I’ll get Narses.” She cast herself into stealth and vanished. Verrula expression cracked as she grabbed Orin’s hand tightly. Orin couldn’t bring herself to move.

“Come on. Issa will handle it.”

They ran back the way they had come, Tiny falling behind as they bumped the walls in their haste. The smell of the undead was filling the halls behind them, making it hard to breathe. Orin was relieved when they finally reached the surface and spilled out into the night. The temptation to look back for the warband members they’d left behind was too great. Despite Verrula still trying to pull her away, she turned back.

They weren’t just coming from the tomb. They were everywhere. The rotting bodies that spilled from the entrance were met by others that came from around the back of the ruins. They moved like an army, their terrible groans drowning out Orin’s own screams.

Verrula jumped in front with her rifle raised, but Orin could see her legs shaking. “Tiny, run! Warn your warband and get back to the fahrar for reinforcements!” She didn’t know if the speckled charr had listened. Her own heart was pounding as she searched for something she could do to stop the onslaught.

A shot from Verrula’s rifle blew a temporary hole in the wall of undead, but it was quickly filled by others. Eyeless asura, tattered humans, and even charr were among the ranks. Orin’s hands were shaking as she raised them and tried to summon the green flames that she had used to deal with the ghosts so easily before, but nothing came.

From the entrance to the ruins came a roar as a charging figure plowed through the undead that were blocking the way, sending them flying in scattered heaps into the clearing. Narses emerged, badly bleeding and carrying an unconscious Issa over his shoulder. His armor had been torn off in places and he was hobbling as fast as he could. “Orin! Verrula! There’s too many to fight, we have to go!”

“Issa…” Verrula whispered with grief in her voice. The one instruction Orin felt she could obey was to run. Dropping her hands as Narses caught up to them, they struggled to keep pace and make it to the perceived safety of the trees.

“I couldn’t save Loreius. I couldn’t find him,” Narses grunted.

“You did what you could.” Verrula led them into the trees, running on all fours to dodge the underbrush. The Snout warband was nowhere to be seen, and Orin hoped they had made it back for help. They kept pace, but behind them, the hoard sounded closer than ever. _Don’t look back,_ Orin willed as she ran, her lungs burning. The stench of death filled the forest.

Ahead, there was a low wall. If they could make it over, they could possibly put some distance between them and the undead as they sprinted for the fahrar. Narses charged ahead, eyes squinted in agony.

The leaves underneath them churned as if the forest floor was coming alive. Orin watched as the ground in front of Verrula exploded, knocking her sprawling in a splash of leaves. An undead human snarled and leapt out of the hole it had burst from. Orin watched in horror as it fell upon her. The forest was filled with her screams.

“Keep going!!” Narses yelled. He barreled forward, dodging the undead that were tearing themselves free from the earth. All four limbs were keeping Orin moving toward the wall. Suddenly, she felt something grab at her two back limbs, pulling them out from under her. She yelped as her muzzle hit the dirt hard and was dragged backward over the twigs. She managed to twist herself onto her back and saw that one of the undead had caught up with her.

He was putrid. The flesh on his bones was hanging in strips and where there had once been lips there were only brown teeth, gnashing in her face. The grip he held Orin’s ankles with was inhuman. She struggled and kicked, but he only held on tighter. In a raspy voice that she couldn’t fathom he could form with his own mangled throat, he hissed, “Zhaitan will devour you.”

Hands emerged from either side of her and grabbed her wrists. She was pinned now. She closed her eyes, thinking this was how she would die.

Something swished above her head and the grip on her ankles loosened. She opened her eyes to see the head of the undead human roll with a thud onto the ground. Narses held his sword out in front of him, guarding her from above. The hoard was all around them now.

Orin struggled to move her arms but she was still pinned. “Narses, I can’t move!”

Several undead rushed them at once, but Narses swung with his massive reach, cutting them in half before they could get close.  
“You’ve got to trust me,” he huffed. Even his boundless energy was falling short. Issa was sliding off his back. “As soon as I tell you to go, you need to run. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Of course I trust you!” As soon as Orin yelled it, Narses wound up his sword arm and slashed downward. She barely felt a thing, but suddenly her left arm was free. She scrambled to her feet and yanked her right arm with a roar, separating the risen's grasping limb from its body with a sickening snap.

“GO!” Narses howled. Orin didn’t think twice. He would be right behind her. She bolted, feeling the sharp pain start in her left wrist, but she didn’t slow down. When the world started to become fuzzy around her, she only picked up her pace. She clutched at her wrist, feeling now there was something missing. Blue lights appeared around her like flickering candles in the shape of men. They ran past her in a disorienting flash. The wall ahead of her was easy to scale, but she tripped over it.

She couldn’t get back to her feet. She was much too dizzy. She barely had the strength to peer over the wall back at Narses. He had not followed. She weakly called his name, but she couldn’t look away as she saw him and Issa fall under the writhing shape of the risen tide. The blue mists of the ghosts dotted the darkness, screaming sounds of battle. All she heard before she finally slumped down against the wall were the calls of other charr, perhaps welcoming her to the mists.

“I’m sorry…” she gasped as everything faded. “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaay notes time.
> 
> Yeah, this chapter hurt a lot. Mostly because of deciding how I wanted the structure of this confession to be and then because I went so far in detail.
> 
> I would LOVE to write more about the Claw warband. They started off as kind of throwaway characters and then...they really came alive to me. i'm sad. Narses is such a good, large boy. 
> 
> Also, it occurred to me that maybe SOME of you play Guild Wars 2 and would want to find me in game! My DN is melociraptors.9835. I have a bunch of characters but I main Orin, mostly and I love doing dungeon & fractal runs so come say hi!


	7. Dusk and Dawn

“I lead them out that night so that we could all prove we were the best warband in the fahrar. It was just a dumb, childish bet with our fiercest rival warband. I hatched a plan, not so unlike this one, to draw out the ghosts,” Orin said, staring into the depths of her ale. “One by one, I lost my warband to an army of undead. And I didn’t get away unscarred.” She glanced down at the clasping hook she wore to cover what was left of the hand that Narses had taken to free her. It was a constant and painful reminder of his absence.

“I never told you about this because I’m a coward. In every aspect of my life. I’d never risk your life with my magic like I did with my warband that night. I couldn’t forgive myself…if I raised Zhaitan’s minions again.”

“Orin…” Sieran placed her hand gently on the prosthetic. The charr could see tears running down her cheeks. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

She could almost feel the warmth of her mentor’s touch where she normally felt nothing. “The Imperator thought I should. He banished me from the citadel. He didn’t even force me to live out my shame as a gladium. When those priory explorers found me, starving and passed out in the snow after weeks of wandering, they took me to their camp. I thought I could have a fresh start at the Durmond Priory. Put that all in the past…it was the only way I could go on.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Trahearne cut in. He looked grim. “If I had known what I had been asking of you that night in the library, I would have tempered my words. I know what it is like to lose comrades and I know what it is like to have been the one in charge of keeping them safe. Sometimes, I have utterly failed them. But know this so that you can have peace of mind: your magic couldn’t have caused Zhaitan’s undead to rise. It sounds to me that you possess great power within you, but the risen were likely already advancing on Ascalon long before you met them that evening.”

Sieran nodded. “Not even Trahearne could raise an army like that, and certainly not by accident.”

Orin rubbed her temple, trying to take in what the necromancer had said. “I have to know for sure,” she insisted. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but this theory you have, Trahearne. If the magic the ghosts are emitting is really what’s drawing the risen…I might be able to…” She wasn’t sure what she would feel if that were the case. She’d entertained the idea briefly back in the library - she could have revenge, a sense of purpose, she might even be able to gather the dignity to visit their graves, if they were even granted any. If she could know it wasn’t her fault, then she could blame it on Zhaitan, and that was an enemy she could fight.

“So you’re not going along with all this just because of me,” Sieran mused. “That’s a relief.”

“Of course not. You can handle yourself, I know that,” Orin admitted.

Trahearne agreed. “Then we are doing all of this as much for each other as we are for myself.” He raised his glass of ginger ale. “May we even find a solution that saves all of Tyria – if we are lucky.”   
“We’ll find out together,” Sieran said. The sylvari smiled with sympathy as she raised her own glass.

Orin couldn’t help but smile back as she clinked her mug against theirs. “Yeah.”

The chatter amongst the crowd in the bar had only grown louder as the hour had worn on and Orin suddenly became very aware of the volume. They all seemed to be in good spirits, whether they were drinking at the bar or arguing tactics with their warband around the tables. There were some charr that looked battered from a recent fight, but they all cheered and raised their glasses in a toast anyway. Everyone carried on in their own ways.

A very drunk group of charr in various stages of undress stumbled in. One of them carried a war drum on a belt in front of him and half-eaten haunch in the other.

“’Ey all ya cubs! Get on yer feet. We’re on a pub tour t’day.” With a hiccup, he took a bite from the haunch and used it to pound a slightly off-rhythm beat, despite the protests of the tavern keeper. The rousing cheers from the patrons completely silenced his thoughts on the matter.

Sieran set her empty cup down on the table. “Orin, do you dance?”

Orin choked on her ale. “What?” she sputtered. “No no-“

Sieran smirked mischievously. “I bet you do. All these other charr can do it.”

Orin flushed under her fur as she watched the patrons get up one by one, marching and leaping, filling the empty spaces of the tavern. They stomped their paws and shouted in unison to accentuate the beats of the drum. “I’m trying not to draw attention to myself.”

To her surprise, Trahearne stood up. “Something tells me you’re not going to be recognized in the crowd here. And besides, a dance can lift the spirit,” he said. Sieran took his words as encouragement and tugged at Orin’s paw.

“But this is a war dance.”

“Then we’ll just make up our own kind of dance! It’ll be cherry!” Both Trahearne and her mentor were ganging up on her now, and she knew they weren’t likely to give up easily.

She sighed. “Let me at least finish this.” Orin tipped her mug back and polished the rest of the ale off, hoping for the liquid courage to kick in fast.

The two sylvari didn’t quite grasp the concept of the charr’s traditional dancing, but they didn’t seem to care. While they whirled and flowed along to their own interpretation of the rhythm, Orin struggled to find feeling in her limbs. The emotions of battle and glory were what fueled the power of the dance, something Orin hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was hard to recall. She was off beat as the rest of the soldiers in the room fell in sync with each other’s shouts and stances as if they’d practiced it all beforehand. She felt smaller than she had before, somehow like less of a charr.

She hadn’t realized she was standing still until Trahearne and Sieran swept into her line of sight. Trahearne beckoned her forward. “Follow us,” he said. Orin watched him raise his arms above his head and clap them together. Sieran laughed and spun around, following suit. The two of them circled each other, moving their bodies in a serpentine way that would look ridiculous for a charr to do. But Orin took a small step forward anyway and raised her arms too, waving them back and forth.

Sieran grabbed her paw as she lowered it and guided Orin through an awkward spin. Then, Trahearne caught her paw as Sieran let it go and did the same. The rhythm started to beat its way into Orin’s limbs, but differently than she had felt it before. She was light on her feet as the sylvari whirled around her. Sieran’s robes twirled out in a spiral around her and Trahearne was a blur of bright green. Orin shouted in time with the charr while weaving like a leaf blown by the wind between her friends.

“Look at you!” Sieran cheered, her blue eyes shining. “You can dance after all.”

 

She hadn’t meant to drink much, but she felt lighter than she had in years. Downing five ales meant nothing to a charr her size – a charr Grough’s size could slam ten without taking a breath - but wasn’t just the alcohol that had her feeling so pleasant.

Orin almost tripped on the step that led out of the tavern, but Sieran caught her with a sudden gust of wind to steady her on her feet. The two of them burst into laughter, doubling over. She was sure her mentor had never seen her so vulnerable and happy. She felt as if she was finally sharing the weight that she carried, something she hadn’t felt since she’d been with her warband.

“I’m glad everyone seems to be in good spirits,” Trahearne said, stepping out of the bar behind them. He now carried the knapsack on his own back, being the only sober one in the group. “Let’s head out of the city through the sewers and toward the graveyard. I believe we will have the best luck if we try this out at night.”

Sieran groaned and slurred her own words a bit. “Come on, firstborn. Let us at least enjoy the sunset before we go. Oh, and maybe we could visit the Durmand Scriptorium after that! I haven’t been able to record anything yet to show for this excursion, and a report on the charr’s branch of the recording facility initiative is sure to smooth over the conversation I’ll have to have with Gixx about this whole trip.”

“If you want to see an incredible sunset, the view from the Stormcaller is the best,” Orin agreed enthusiastically. “You can see across Ashford for miles.”

Trahearne looked out at the brilliant yellow and orange sky that seemed to set the plains beyond the walls of the Citadel ablaze. “I’m inclined to agree, but that sunset means we need to reach our destination before darkness and danger truly sets in. Also, you and I both know you’re not going to record anything tonight, Sieran, but I’m sure Gixx will forgive you.”

His two companions sulked. Sieran whispered under her breath about him being a twig in the mud, but Orin knew he was right. Trying to cheer Sieran up, she put a paw on her shoulder. “Come on, we can still have fun. I’ll show you how to blast ghosts. It’s going to be great.”

The route down into the gladium canton cleared out significantly at night. Orin knew this was probably because the more unsavory inhabitants preferred the cover of darkness to the open streets of the daytime, but she didn’t feel threatened. She flexed her paw in front of her, turning and examining it as if waiting for something to happen, feeling more prepared than before. Sieran hummed a tune as she strolled along behind her and Trahearne led the way down the balconies and bridges, effortlessly vigilant as always. If anyone did try to hurt any of them, she wouldn’t feel so bad about sending them plummeting to the water below with a blast of green fire.

“This looks like it could be an entrance to the sewers.” Trahearne was pointing at a pretty inconspicuous crack in the rock wall where a stream of water was flowing out.

From the ugly shade of the waste water and the strong odor it emitted, Orin agreed with his assumption.

She wrinkled her nose. “Smells like it.”

Upon closer inspection of the crack, Orin doubted she could fit comfortably through. She decided to try anyway, squeezing herself through the sharp inlet, horns first. Luckily, it opened up fairly quickly into a taller passageway roughly carved into a tunnel through the solid cliffside.

“What do you see? Should we come through this way?” Trahearne called from behind her. The way his voice echoed, it sounded like he had entered the tunnel behind her. Orin peered into the darkness. She could see a good distance into the tunnel where it branched off in either direction. She drew one of her daggers for protection as she crept along the darkening tube.

“Yeah, follow me.”

“Well this is certainly the scenic route,” Sieran remarked jokingly before making a gagging sound and falling into a coughing fit.

Orin waited at the fork for Trahearne and her mentor to catch up. “If I’m picturing my mental map correctly, the left passageway leads out to an aqueduct by Ligacus Aquilo. That’ll be our fastest route,” she explained to him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve needed to take the sewers anywhere.”

Sieran replied with a nasally voice, holding her nostrils. “I’m not going to ask.”

The smell only intensified as they proceeded down the left tunnel, and Orin let Trahearne take the lead. He glowed orange in the darkness and made a convenient beacon to follow. She guided Trahearne forward and listened for the sound of Sieran’s footsteps behind her, which sloshed and crunched on whatever had washed down from the drains of the city above. She could have sworn she felt small, quivery bodies brush quickly by her ankles a few times. “Maybe I shouldn’t have drank that fifth ale,” she remarked, feeling queasy.

The darkness thickened around them as they trudged on and soon, the blackness surrounded them so completely even Trahearne’s glow only cast a small radius of light around them. After awhile, Orin couldn’t remember how long they’d been walking or how far they’d come.

“Sieran, I’ve got a question,” Orin said, keeping her voice low. “Why don’t you glow like Trahearne does?”

She heard Trahearne laugh but clear his throat quickly. “That’s actually a pretty fair question from someone outside the culture.”

"I was born in the cycle of dawn,” she explained. “Only those sylvari who emerge during the cycle of dusk or night glow, like Trahearne. In fact, there are a lot of differences between the cycles if you - wait, do you hear that?”

Trahearne stopped suddenly and Orin nearly toppled him over as they collided. Sieran shushed them both. “Sorry,” Trahearne whispered. “I’m just a bit uneasy. What is it, Sieran?”

Orin felt her mentor shuffle past her, but she barely heard her footsteps. In fact, Orin turned her upper and lower ears in all directions, but she still couldn’t pick up anything but gently dripping water. She felt much more sober as the fur on the back of her neck stood up. It was far too quiet.

“It’s like…like a groan,” Sieran said quietly.

“From ahead of us?” Trahearne’s voice hissed.

Sieran’s voice sounded frightened. “I don’t know! I can’t tell.”

They stood still for another long moment, waiting to hear some kind of noise similar to Sieran’s description. Still nothing.

Orin was about to just resign it to Sieran’s overactive imagination and keep moving when she heard…something. A heavy sound, like a sack dragging on the rough stone of the tunnel floor.

“I heard something, too! Quick, we need a bigger source of light,” she urged, although she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to see what it was.

There was a sudden flash of light in front of her as a fireball roared away from Sieran’s hands and down the tunnel. It made impact with something and illuminated a human figure as it set the being up in flames. The human screamed while it was being immolated, and its burning body lit up the space behind it. The light revealed a writhing mass of bodies blocking the way ahead that certainly didn’t look like they were living or happy to have been exposed. A loud chorus of groans echoed through the tunnel as they started to clamber over each other.

“Risen!” Trahearne exclaimed, drawing the focus from his side. “Quick, back the other way!”

Orin grabbed Sieran’s arm and pulled, but the sylvari was frozen, her face a look of utter terror lit by the fire of the burning corpse. They were advancing fast but Orin knew they could get out in time if they moved quickly. They needed to run. She pushed away the familiarity of this situation and pulled harder. Sieran resisted as if she were rooted in place. “Come on!” Orin screamed.

Trahearne stood in front of them both like a barrier, holding his scepter out as if issuing a challenge. He too stood his ground, his stance unafraid. She watched as he waved his focus in a circle and summoned a wall of the blue and green flames he had called on before in the ice cave, cutting them off from the undead.

“Look, Trahearne bought us time, but please Sieran, let’s go!”

“They look so…so horrible…” Sieran breathed. “I’ve never…”

“What are you still doing here?” Trahearne shouted, turning to see the two of them still standing in place. His face was twisted in an expression of hysteria that Orin hadn’t seen while his back was to them. “I can hold them off while you-“

There was a rumbling groan as the wall of flames broke momentarily. A massive undead norn charged through the blue flames as if it was completely unaffected by them. Orin couldn’t call out a warning fast enough, but Trahearne wasn’t caught off guard. He turned in time to see the risen barreling down the tunnel, pulling back its arm to swing a massive mace at his head. As the weapon swung, Trahearne vanished into the darkness and appeared behind the juggernaut with a spell prepared. But the mace continued its momentum straight into the wall, where it crashed with a quivering bang into the stone.

They felt the entire tunnel shake and looked up just as chunks of stone began to fall from the spreading web of cracks in the ceiling.

Finally, Orin was able to pull Sieran from where she stood, and the two of them yelped and fell backward with a splash as the rocks continued to fall down where they had just been standing. Orin flung her body over Sieran’s in protection and grunted from the impact of several stones that bounced off of her back. Once the sound of crumbling rocks had ceased, she stood up.

There was nothing but a pile of stones where they had just been. And Trahearne wasn’t with them.

Orin ran to the pile and sank to her knees. “No…no,” she panted heavily, struggling to move the largest rocks out of the way. “Trahearne!” The thought of Loreius, crushed and helpless under the ruins flashed back to her. The feeling of being trapped like a rat in a maze as the undead swarmed her was all she could think about. If they had only moved in time, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Sieran! Orin! I’m alive.” The voice was muffled behind the cave-in, but it was unmistakably Trahearne’s voice coming through a small opening between the rocks at the top. He sounded strong and reassuring, but out of breath. “I can fight my way through these undead easily to Ligacus Aquilo. I’ll be fine. I’ve got the canister with me. You two need to escape and make sure that no other risen are coming into the city. This group here can’t be all of them.”

Orin let her hands fall from the stone, relieved. Of course he was fine. Ever since she’d met Trahearne, he’d been in control. He’d seen through every difficulty as if he always knew his next move. As long as he was fine, she could handle anything.

Orin heard Sieran exhale and felt a tug at her sleeve. The tunnel ahead of them illuminated as the sylvari cast a flame around her dagger and held it above her head like a lantern. She looked serious. “You heard him. He knows what he’s doing. Now let’s go save the citadel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry this took awhile. I have no excuse other than this was harder to write than the last chapter.
> 
> Canonically, all sylvari glow. I know this. Buuuuut I thought it might make for more interesting lore this way? Also because tunnel lighting mechanics and whatnot. 
> 
> I met one of you on GW the last week and it was a blast! Thanks for recognizing me in the Auric Basin meta event of all places. Yay!
> 
> On to the next chapter.


	8. Justice

“This is bad.”

It was an understatement on Sieran’s part. They had made it back to the entrance of the sewers quickly. From the mouth of the cliffside tunnel, they could see the previously quiet gladium canton had erupted into chaos. Orin gripped the rock tightly as she surveyed the scene before her: undead were scaling the walls from the depths of the ruins below with surprising agility and leaping onto walkways where the citizens stood armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find to fight off the invasion. Even if they didn’t patrol with warbands any longer, each of them was still a soldier trained to defend their city with their lives.

“They must be flooding into the bottom of the city through the lower sewer tunnels.” Orin was grateful that the one they had come from had been blocked off by the cave-in, but knew one blocked tunnel wouldn’t be enough to make a difference in the invasion’s numbers. She hoped that wherever Trahearne was, he wasn’t up against anything like this.

“What should we do?” Sieran asked. Her mentor’s eyes darted around as if she couldn’t decide what to focus on. If Orin knew the answer to that question, she wouldn’t be hesitating either. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t have time to overthink it right now. The soldier’s spirit within her was calling her to act. There would be time to think later.

The walkway below them was clear. Most of the battle was taking place in the inner parts of the canton. Orin motioned for Sieran to follow her down onto the platforms. She dropped down to the planks on all fours, drawing her dagger with her hook as she got her footing. She felt the slight bump of Sieran landing behind her not long after. 

As she turned to tell her mentor to follow, her stomach sank in fear. The wall of the cavern behind Sieran was covered with risen, skittering like hundreds of insects climbing up the trunk of a tree. A rotting asura that had scrambled up the wall to their level reached its claw out hungrily towards the unaware Sieran, about to grab her by the neck.

The asura gurgled as a black, spectral hand closed around its throat instead and ripped it from its grip on the wall. The hand pulled it through the air, straight into the powerful grasp of Orin’s claws. The thing felt small and fragile in her hand as it struggled, kicking its legs like a caught rodent. The blood surged in Orin’s veins as she snarled in its face. Raising it high above her head, she hurled the asura back toward the wall. It hit the rock with a splat and fell down into the abyss in pieces.

Sieran jumped away from the wall with a squeak, dodging quickly away from the other undead that were ascending and attempting to grab the ropes of the platform. She drew her own daggers, but Orin stepped in front of her, panting heavily and glaring a challenge at the risen with her hands raised. “Get back toward the center of the quarter,” she directed. “We’re vulnerable on the perimeter.”

The sylvari ducked under Orin’s protective arm and nodded. She looked determined as she looked over her shoulder at the wall of undead. “First, back up off this bridge. I’ve got an idea.”   
Orin took a few steps back off the perimeter bridge as Sieran stepped forward. She watched nervously as the undead managed to leap off of the wall onto the walkway in increasing numbers. Seeing that there was a lone living being standing out in the open, more began to follow suit. They amassed into a large pack, staggering across the platform toward Sieran with a shared purpose to destroy.

Orin readied a green flame in her palm, growing increasingly nervous with Sieran’s inaction as the undead shambled closer. She could see the sylvari’s arms shaking, even as she stood her ground. They wouldn’t have enough time to run if they waited much longer. She took an uneasy step forward. “Sieran…”

Sieran’s daggers suddenly lit up with flames. She swung them high and then down smoothly through the ropes holding the platform stable. With a nimble roll backwards, Sieran landed on solid ground next to Orin just as the platform began to tilt to one side. Orin watched as the risen that had gathered on the bridge began to lose their footing and slide down the incline. Some attempted to grab on to the ropes or dig their fingers into the planks, but became too weighed down by other frantic undead grabbing at anything they could hold onto to avoid falling. The undead rained off of the bridge, their screams echoing into the pit below.

Sieran leapt into the air with a cheer, grinning at Orin. A wave of relief washed over her as her anxiety subsided. She extinguished the fire in her palm, closing her fist. They were safe for now. “Don’t scare me like that again,” Orin sighed.

“Be afraid of the undead, not of my methods!” 

“That’s rich, coming from someone who almost blew up the whole Priory just trying to sheath a magical sword,” Orin deadpanned. “But it looks like you bought us some time to join the thick of the fight.” She watched a significantly smaller group of undead crawl around the walls in frustration now that one of their main access points to the canton was cut off.

The two scholars hurried through the narrow winding platforms of the inner canton, past the decimated remains of the risen who had managed to slip their way in. Orin stepped around them, noting the ferocity with which they’d met their end. The gladium could still rip apart their enemies with fearsome results. But it wasn’t without casualties. She turned her head away from a small, female charr whose face and arms hung off the edge of the railings and out of view. Her body was deathly still. Orin clenched her fist and remained vigilant.

She started a bit as Sieran grabbed her arm tightly, pulling her out of her focus. “Orin, look!”  
As she looked into the inner square of the canton, she saw that Grough was standing tall in the middle of the fray. The old charr was beaming at the sky with his arms full of rifles. One by one, he handed them out to citizens that ran past him, appearing to be in great spirits despite the threat. “I knew this day would come! I knew I’d be ready! Look alive, you cubs!”

“Grough!” Orin shouted with relief, sprinting over to him. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive.”  
He blinked his milky white eyes at her with an expression of disbelief. “Of course I’m still alive! In fact, I haven’t felt this alive in years! Here, daisy.”

Sieran scrambled to catch a massive charr rifle Grough had tossed in her direction with a bit too much force. The slight sylvari struggled to hold it upright. “Uhm, thank you?”

"I don't smell your monied, evergreen friend with you. Where's he at?" Grough asked.

"Making sure no more of these things find their way in. I hope." Orin watched as another large group of undead dropped from the cliffside onto the platforms of the city. They charged and clashed with the armed citizens who were holding the perimeter of the square. It was working for now, but she could see some of the older charr stumbling with exhaustion. “Grough, they’re not going to stop coming unless we can make them retreat. Intermittent firepower isn’t going to hold them off forever.” She turned down the offering of a rifle, pushing it back as Grough shoved it at her. 

What would Trahearne do? Orin mused, berating herself for not trying harder to dig him out. He knew more about the undead than any of them. They needed him here.

“This whole thing ain’t your fault, is it?” Grough asked suspiciously.

“Are you serious!” Sieran replied. She pointed an accusing, but blindly ignored, finger at the old charr. “Do you think we’re stupid enough to start a firestorm like this in the middle of the Black Citadel?!”

The idea struck her as she lingered on the word ‘firestorm’, remembering recounting with Trahearne the story of the Foefire and The Searing. If a cleansing in fire was good enough to defeat all of Ascalon, surely a persisting blaze could hold off the undead. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Grough, do you have any oil?”

Grough scoffed, rubbing his unkempt fur self-consciously. “This entire place feels like it's covered in grease sometimes. It ain’t my fault.”

“This is serious.”

“Alright alright, yeah I’ve got some marmox oil back in my shack to grease my screws. You oughta grab that.”

Orin dashed into the shack and smelled something rancid almost immediately. As much as she wanted to plug her nose, she reluctantly sniffed around for the source of the smell until she found three large buckets hidden under a table. It was clearly old oil, made from the fat of the marmoxes that populated the Ashford plains. It had hardened into the buckets, topped with a horrid, brown crust. She wrinkled her nose and grabbed each pail. They would have to do – as long as they were as flammable as she hoped.

Orin returned with the buckets swinging in her hands. “Sieran, I need you to ready a fireball and only release it when I say.” 

The sylvari tossed aside her rifle and instead formed a small ball of fire in her palm. “Ready when you are.”

Orin called out to the perimeter guard. “Get back!” She launched one of the buckets in an arc over their heads. When it was just above the risen, Orin turned to Sieran and shouted. “Now!”  
The sylvari gracefully loosed the fireball at the airborne bucket. Orin was glad she was on the same wavelength. She had to move fast for the second part of her plan, not waiting to see the results of her command. Instead, she stooped near a risen corpse that had been freshly dispatched and focused intently. 

She did hear Grough and Sieran both let out satisfied, “Oooh”’s as the fireball hit its target. The blast of fire melted the congealed fat in the first bucket and lit it instantly into a sleek blanket of fire that rained down over the forces of the undead. Just like they had when Sieran blasted them earlier in the tunnel, the risen howled as their rotten skin bubbled and flaked into drifting ash. Hanging banners and tattered rags littered on the ground caught on fire as well, causing collateral damage. The perimeter guard was forced to shift backward to avoid the shimmering heat of the flames. 

Through the wall of fire leapt a juggernaut, crafted of flesh and bones. Orin flexed her claws and grinned. She enjoyed the sensation of power in commanding something of her own creation once more. Formed using the corpse of a risen, she felt that this was some justice at last for what they had done to her warband. It may not have been as effortlessly summoned as Trahearne’s, but she worked with what she had. As the construct looked back to her for direction, Orin commanded it with a claw raised toward the charred masses of the undead.

“Charge.”

Blackened risen flew everywhere. The golem scattered them like pebbles as it rammed through the horde. It gored a risen human through the stomach on its bony horn, not stopping to shake it off and its bone-spiked arms hit bodies with wet and bloody thuds. It seemed to ignore the fire, or at least it wasn’t affected by pain and continued its rampage.

With the undead in the square cleared off, Orin picked up the other two buckets at her feet and motioned to Sieran to ready another fireball. She roared and tossed them into the air. Sieran had caught on to the plan by now, hitting both targets dead on. They fell, spinning downwards and spraying fire down into the cavern below. Orin knew they had hit the water when the light of the burning oil intensified, spreading out wide over the water that settled below the canton.

Sieran dashed to the edge of the platforms and leaned over. The fire below consumed anything that would burn, including the undead who hadn’t yet made it to the safety of the walls. The residents of the canton rushed to line the platforms, cheering and calling out for the undead to try them again. Even Grough, who couldn’t see what had happened, felt emboldened enough to lean over the edge of the platform and taunt them. “There’s more of the same up here if you’re hungry for it!”

Sieran watched the shrieking risen intently and then looked back at Orin, her expression triumphant. “We did it! They’re retreating through the sewers!”

Orin smiled back, breathing in the moment of calm. She had never felt so alive commanding death magic. Surrounded by cheers, she was infected by the mood of victory. She clapped Grough on the back and whooped with laughter, as he scrambled not to lose his footing and fall over the edge.

Sieran beamed up at her. “So…necromancy seems like it can do a lot of good when it’s used by the right person, huh?” Her tone was slightly teasing, but Orin was too pleased to take the bait. Besides, Sieran was right and she’d only gloat about that point. This time, her magic had saved lives. She wished Trahearne had been here to see it. 

She noticed Sieran’s eyes widen in surprise. It was all the warning she had before two strong arms grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her snout-first onto the ground.

From the corner of her eye, Orin could see the entrance to the canton occupied with fully armored charr securing the area. The Adamant Guard. They dispatched her flesh golem with ease and spread out the canton to investigate the remains of the risen invasion.

“Orin!” Sieran shouted. At her call, Orin struggled to free herself from the grip, but was quickly subdued, earning a butt to her cheek from the guard’s rifle for her troubles. She heard some murmurs ripple through the crowd of citizens that had just been cheering with her, but none of them made a move to assist. They knew better than to get in the way of the Adamant Guard.

Sieran yelped as two guards snatched her by her wrists with little effort. Orin heard Grough shout in protest, too. “Hey, you leave my charge and her daisy alone! They just helped save our all our arses because you lot were late to the party!” 

“Know your place,” Orin heard one of the guards that held her growl at Grough. Her captors pulled her to her feet. Sieran’s set her feet back on the ground and locked her wrists behind her back with iron clasps. Orin glimpsed her old primus looking fearful as the guard led her away from him. She understood what all of this meant, regardless of whatever good they had just done. 

“They’ll be answering to Smodur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goddddddd...this chapter was so hard to write and I don't know why. I'm sorry for the delay. I work full time and it's been a busy time of year. I have the next chapters almost completely done, so you won't have to wait so long anymore. 
> 
> I hate writing risen as much as I hate fighting risen and that might be evident. 
> 
> In other news, hope y'all are super stoked about the expansion! I'm planning a spin-off fic that should tie in to some theories I have about PoF's "prequel" so to speak. It's a runner up on my priority list compared to this fic though.


	9. Head of Iron

Orin was marched up the winding, steel ramp of the Black Citadel’s core between two armored guards, her arms tied behind her back. She went without a fight, knowing any resistance would only make her case look worse. Sieran, however, didn’t go as easily. Orin watched anxiously as Sieran kicked and spit at the unfazed charr that had her in custody. They wouldn’t kill her, but she couldn’t bear it if Sieran suffered any of the harsh consequences the charr frequently imposed on their prisoners.

“You don’t understand!” the sylvari argued. “We just saved you and your entire city from a dragon-minion invasion!”

“They don’t need to understand anything, Sieran,” Orin snapped, trying to draw the guard’s attention. “They’re just brainless soldiers, trained to lick the imperator’s boots.”

They reached the top of the ramp, and one of the soldiers shoved Orin to her knees. She felt a kick to her back of her head and her face smacked the cold, metallic floor, the claws from a heavy foot digging into her spine. Hot breath flooded her ear as the guard whispered menacingly. “You’re no better than gold legion scum, necromancer. You’re not really in a position to talk down to us, are you?”

Orin hadn’t heard the threat. Her eyes went wide as Trahearne passed her by, being calmly lead up the ramp by only one guard. She noticed that the guard had the backpack containing the canister around their shoulder. He’d managed to survive and keep it safe somehow, but that all seemed moot.

“Trahearne!” she gasped. Her hood drooped over her eyes, slightly obscuring him, but she could still make out his face as he passed.

Trahearne glanced down at a stunned Orin and nodded at her as if to say everything would be fine. Sure enough, the pressure lifted from her back and she was dragged back to her feet. “Keep moving,” hissed the guard. Keeping in mind Trahearne’s calm demeanor, she decided to save her remaining sharp words for the imperator.

The command core of the citadel loomed in front of them, the great spiral door unfurling with the sound of scraping iron. Orin saw Sieran flinch at the noise. She didn’t know what would happen to her and Trahearne as sylvari, but she heard stories of what had happened to charr that blatantly disobeyed commands in the past. She’d watched them fight in the Bane against increasingly stronger enemies in tournaments that only ever ended in death. Her only chance was to make them see reason.

They were marched through the door into the massive metal dome. The far wall was constructed only of windows that provided a frame for the full moon. In front it, the silhouetted figure of an imposing, armored charr stood at a table, surrounded by a dozen seated colleagues. Orin recognized them all as high-ranking military commanders – centurions of the high legions. Each one stopped talking and stared as the guards entered the room with the prisoners.

“Imperator Smodur,” barked the head guard that had led them in. “We apprehended these intruders in the gladium canton and one with a unknown magical device trying to enter the city. The entire quarter below was flooded with undead when we got there and this one was observed using necromancy. We managed to quell the last of the undead before capturing the green sylvari at Ligacus Aquilo, and my squad captured the perpetrator.”

“I’m not the-“ Orin grunted and fell silent as a guard kicked her shin with the side of his steel boot.

The silhouetted charr standing at the middle of the table remained still as if carved from stone solely to appear imposing. Orin could feel his gaze burning into her. At last, he spoke. “At ease, soldiers. Release them from bonds, but close the door behind them.” Imperator Smodur leaned over the table, his heavy nose ring and armor glinting in the glow of the moonlight. “I want them to try and give me a good explanation for what they’re doing in my city.”

As soon as their bonds were unlocked, the guards pushed the three of them forward so they were standing in a line in front of the imperator. Sieran jumped again at the sound of the grinding door and stood close to Orin, grabbing tightly to her hook. Orin took a deep breath and pushed her hood back from her head, revealing herself fully to the imperator. She knelt down in a bow, tugging Sieran’s hand gently until she took the hint to do the same. Trahearne elegantly followed suit.

The room was silent until one of the other charr leaders at the table cleared their throat. Smodur growled. “Leave me with our guests a moment. You may exit through my quarters.” Orin watched as they stood up an exited quickly, gossiping quietly about the identity of these prisoners that didn’t look like the usual Flame Legion ruffians.

As the last of the officials left, Smodur walked calmly around the table. “Rise,” he commanded, and the three did so as quickly as they could. The imperator of the Iron Legion was a leader in every sense of the word, and even though she was burning with rage at him for the way his guard had treated them, she still couldn’t help but follow the customs of dedicating respect to her former legion’s figurehead.

“I know you. Orin Sharpclaw, was it?” Smodur approached her, descending the stairs leading from the raised platform of his war table. Orin watched his eye appraise her missing hand and the terrified sylvari gripping its replacement.

“Orin Oneclaw, imperator,” she replied, trying to sound confident, but it didn’t matter how angry she was. He held control of the room. She couldn’t even look him in the face.

“I see. You still bear the name of a deceased warband. Shameful,” he growled in her face. “I recall it was made clear you were banished from the citadel. Why would my guards catch you skulking around the gladium canton? Amongst a horde of undead, at that?” Smodur paused in front of Orin expectantly.

“Imperator, you have to understand. The undead weren’t our doing. There’s been an invasion-“

“Invasion?” Smodur interrupted with a snarl. “There have never been undead in this city until today! We haven’t even seen a ghost within our walls in a decade. I want answers, not excuses.”

Trahearned stepped forward. “Your highness, if I may speak? I am Trahearne, firstborn of the sylvari. Your city might be under threat of an impending dragon attack and we come to seek assistance in stopping that threat. I believe that we may have a device that could help us prove that you have a method the charr can use to fight back.”

Smodur eyed Trahearne with curiosity after being addressed like royalty. Orin braced herself in case he turned his wrath on her friend. Instead, the imperator laughed and shook his head in amusement. “So you’re the one they captured with the canister.” Smodur reached down for the tattered backpack the guard had left on the floor. Pulling out the canister, he examined it closely. Orin watched him turn it around several times in his large, but discerning paws, knowing the technically-minded imperator was curious about its construction and function.

The imperator, however, did not seem impressed by what he saw. Smodur tossed the canister to the floor, making Orin’s heart skip a beat as it rolled away. “You were wise not to seek an audience with me with this asura tech. It’s more crudely constructed than I would expect from their colleges. I would have laughed you all the way back to the Grove.” His tone shifted in gravity. “But it’s much worse to bring dangerous magic into my domain through unsanctioned means. The consequences of accompanying a traitor to the legions into our territory will be much worse for you, no matter your rank.”

Smodur glared down at Orin in disgust. “Do you know the nature of the company you’ve chosen to keep, sylvari? This one is lower than a gladium. She led her entire warband to their death by dabbling in sorcery. I was merciful enough not to send her to the Blood Citadel, but now, Oneclaw, you have tested my mercy and brought even more death to your people. My patience has worn thin.”

“Orin saved all of your lives and this is the thanks she gets?!” Sieran yelled. “No wonder she never talked about home. You turned your back on her!”

Smodur looked taken aback by the outburst, but he only hardened his stance. “Guards, put them in cells. Keep the traitor separate. She fights in the Bane at dawn.”

The situation was deteriorating fast and Orin could hear the guards with the approaching clanks of their armor. “I’m sorry, Trahearne…Sieran,” she whispered, and bowed her head in defeat.

A loud banging suddenly reverberated from the chamber door. Even Smodur appeared to be caught off guard. A muffled voice called, getting clearer before the door opened, revealing a brigade of soldiers. A large, brown-furred charr that Orin recognized was leading the soldiers in. “Imperator Smodur! Requesting permission to mobilize additional Iron Legion troops to the mustering grounds.”

“Tribune Brimstone! Slow down. What is going on?”

Orin stared in amazement. Rytlock Brimstone panted heavily as if he had run a long way to get here. He was accompanied by ten Iron Legion soldiers who looked like they had taken quite a beating. “The undead…they’re approaching the city en masse across the fields of Ashford. Our troops were the first line of defense, but Iron Legion engineers were able to set up a turret perimeter while our squad broke off to commission more help. We fear they may find other ways into the city.”

Smodur’s good eye widened in shock as he turned to Orin. “Scorch me…they already have…”

Trahearne slowly approached the imperator, only getting a few steps before the guards seized him. He didn’t resist as they held him tightly, but he pleaded. “I know we can’t ask you to forgive the past, but for now myself and my partners from the Priory have formulated a plan to stem the tide of the undead that’s breaching your city now. If we can gain headway into Ascalon, we may have a surefire way to stop the risen elsewhere in Tyria.”

Rytlock let out a surprised snort. “Trahearne? What are you…”

“It is a long story, old friend,” the sylvari replied. Orin blinked. They knew each other?

“Imperator, I don’t know what this is all about,” Rytlock said, motioning toward the Adamant Guard that held them. “But you should know that nobody knows more about the undead and their master than he does. For now, we should listen to his advice, no matter how unconventional.”

Imperator Smodur was hesitant. He looked from Trahearne and then to Orin with distrust. She held her breath with anticipation as she waited for him to say something.

“Consider this a duty to your race, outcast. Go now. Rytlock, don’t let them out of your sight. If they make one wrong move, do not hesitate to eliminate them.”

Rytlock saluted. “Yes, sir. Prisoners, with me.”

“Come on,” Orin motioned for her companions to follow as the guards released them from their grasps. Trahearne saluted them as he jogged his way to Orin’s side. “We’re not safe unless we prove we can actually do what we’ve claimed,” she whispered to him.

“I’m well aware your reputation depends on this,” he replied gravely. “With Rytlock on our side, we might have a chance.”

“You haven’t let me down yet, Trahearne. But for the sake of my own hide, I hope the Tribune puts the same kind of faith in you.”

Sieran caught up with Orin as the charr broke into a four-legged sprint following Rytlock out of the command core, Trahearne close behind. “Who is that charr…Rytlock?” she asked.

“He holds a very high office within a different legion. If he can vouch to Smodur that our intentions are good, we might be able to walk out of the Black Citadel without punishment. But it means we can’t fail,” she explained. “Trahearne, for all our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

His silence was not reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. The plot thickens!! Happy eclipse day, if you're in the US. 
> 
> We're getting through some of the exposition here and then things will get weird. 
> 
> I'll be out of town until Sep 4th so I might try and squeeze one more chapter in before I leave this week.


	10. Mustering Grounds

When Rytlock led them to the front where the Iron Legion had been holding ground earlier, what had been described as a bloodbath of siege warfare and risen was now just a littered mess of turret scraps and eerie silence. All Orin could see as far as evidence that anything was ever alive here were bloodstains glistening on the torn up grass.

Sieran surveyed the scene. “A whole army of undead was supposed to be here?” She pulled her daggers from their sheaths, quickly attuning them to water in case any injured soldiers came out of hiding in need of quick, minor healing, but nobody came. The group stood in the thick silence, the Iron Legion reinforcements looking uneasily at each other. “I don’t like this.” 

“Me neither,” Trahearne replied. “Rytlock, did you command the soldiers to hold the line?”

The blood legion tribune looked furious. “Of course I did. If those milk-drinking cowards turned tail and ran, they know I’d gut them myself. But no, it looks like something else happened here.”

Trahearne knelt beside a pool of blood. Grasping the focus at his side, he extended a hand over the pool and raised a small, bony thrall from it. It stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air in the manner of a hungry rat. “The blood still appears to be fresh. We should be able to follow this little fiend to the source. Though I fear we might be too late to save them.”

Rytlock growled as he passed by, leading the way up the path. “I plan on trying anyway. Smodur will want to know where these undead came from and why they’re here.”  
Trahearne nodded and tapped the backpack he still wore with the magical asuran canister. “That was our intent.” He commanded the small, bony minion to scamper ahead of their squad.

Orin walked alongside Sieran as they followed the party and kept their eyes peeled for any attackers coming up from behind. She noticed that Sieran had developed a bit of a limp as they walked. The two of them fell behind the rest of the group not too long after they began to move. Orin slowed her pace. “Are you hurt, Sieran? Do you need to stop and heal?”

The sylvari shrugged. “I think I might have kicked that guard’s armor in a strange way. It just started to bother me as we ran out here. I haven’t had time to sit down and check it out properly.”

Orin tapped her claws together. She had something she wanted to try. “You should let me heal you then.”

Sieran looked surprised. “You can do that?”

“I mean, I think so. It’s just a little something I’d practiced…you know, when you weren’t looking.”

“Ah, right, your secret, dangerous magic,” she teased. “Well, I’m not all that proficient in healing. It requires a lot of focus and time. So let’s see what you can do.”

Orin helped sit Sieran on the ground so that her legs were flat. She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to lay my hand on your ankle. Let me know if anything feels…wrong.” Sieran didn’t say anything, but watched as Orin placed her hand over the injured ankle. She couldn’t keep her heart from pounding. She’d only done this a few times before. Once when Narses had stubbed his toe – he was terrible with pain – and another when she had practiced on the priory’s resident cats who’d gotten into a fight with a littermate. But never for a sylvari. Anatomically, they were extraordinarily different from charr.

Focusing on her spell, she drew magic from her own life force. It tingled as it flowed through her body, arms, and down to her palm, channeling into Sieran’s body. Luckily, the injury to her ankle was minor. It was a quick process and Orin only felt a little drained afterward. Her mentor wiggled her foot in delight. “Cherry! Feels good as new!”

Orin exhaled a sigh of relief. “I’m so relieved that worked. Come on, let’s catch up to the others.”

Sieran stood up, testing the spell’s effect. Her face lit up when she put her full weight on it and hopped around. “It worked fantastically! Wait, what do you mean YOU’RE relieved!?”

Orin flashed a smile. “Just a taste of your own medicine.”  
Night descended as the party marched on. It only got darker as they moved further away from the light pollution of the citadel and off the lantern-lit pathways of Ashford. Trahearne’s bone fiend was scampering from left to right following a wide trail. Rytlock commanded the soldiers to spread out in a search party for any survivors while he and Trahearne followed the scurrying thrall.

Orin glanced around the familiar hills and noted that the usual sounds of wildlife were absent. No chirps of devourers, no hoots of owls, no cries of bats.

Then the bodies started to appear. Or what was left of them. They stumbled across the bloody armor of a missing soldier at the base of a hill. Trahearne’s thrall stopped to circle and sniff the remains before dashing up the hill and disappearing over its crest. Its master watched it vanish and gave Rytlock a grim look. “I don’t know what we’ll find over the hill, but ready your weapons just in case.” The tribune pulled his flaming sword from its hilt and signaled his soldiers to regroup behind him. 

The group crested the hill. The stench was the first thing to hit them, fresh and fetid like the smell of spilled blood and viscera. Orin flinched away at first, as if she’d hit a wall, but recovered her senses only to see the valley come into view below, littered with the scattered remains of their companions. The smell had accurately foretold what they saw. Few bodies remained intact. Pieces of fur, horns, and tails were the only remaining clues that these victims had once been charr. 

The bone fiend ran down ahead of the stunned party to weave in-between the bodies with curiosity. Orin’s legs felt like lead. She had seen the aftermath of battle before. This hardly looked like a fight.

“What in Tyria…could the undead really have done this?” breathed Rytlock in horror. Some of his soldiers were promptly sick at the sight.

Trahearne hung his head. Orin thought he had likely seen a dozen scenes just like this one. “Unfortunately, they did. I’m sorry, Rytlock. We were too late.”

The tribune shivered. Rytlock wasn’t one to let carnage shake him. As a commanding officer of the Blood Legion, he’d seen plenty of it, but the scene before him only fueled his anger. “Dammit,” he snarled. “I’m going to hit the risen so hard that Zhaitan will feel it. We have to track them down.”

Trahearne broke away from the group to follow his minion across the field. It continued to wander around, more aimlessly now, as if it didn’t know where the trail had gone. It gave Orin a bad feeling. She and Sieran followed closely behind him, leaving the charr battalion to inspect the scene on their own.

“If anyone was still left alive, we would have seen some kind of trail past this point,” Trahearne warned, his voice low. He crouched down and gently touched his hand to a severed arm that’s fur was matted in blood. “Still warm.”

“They must have been ambushed when they fled over the hill.” Sieran looked back to the bodies behind her and grimaced. The way some of them were laying in the same direction showed signs of a desperate attempt to flee. Her green cheeks seemed to blanch. “That could have been us.”

Orin agreed and nodded to Trahearne as she picked up a dropped dagger from the body of a fallen soldier to replace the one she had lost earlier. She paused as she sheathed the weapon, looking forlornly down at a bloodied shield emblazoned with the insignia of the Iron Legion the corpse had carried in life. “Thank you,” she whispered. “The legions will honor you.”

If Sieran was right about the ambush, they would need to coordinate quickly. Orin scanned the darkened treeline a few meters ahead of them, while Trahearne and Sieran stood with their backs to her, equally as alert. Sieran fiddled with her own daggers while Trahearne sent his bone minion to patrol slowly, closer to the forest’s edge. 

Orin’s eyesight was a bit sharper in the dark than her companions, and she kept them fixed unblinkingly on the woods. It was the perfect place to conceal a hidden troop. She’d learned it in the fahrar when they’d discussed battle tactics. Trapping your foe in a valley where you could gain the high ground or fire from a position of cover took a lot of planning ahead to maneuver your enemy. “Trahearne…how intelligent are these undead?”

“They know what their master knows, but I’ve never seen them ‘think’,” he replied. “They seem to follow rudimentary orders.” A look of understanding, and then disbelief flashed across his face as Orin jerked her head at the dense woods.

Orin glanced over at the charr soldiers who had made their way through most of the corpses to ensure there were no survivors. They would have to identify the bodies later. Right now, they had to work quickly, but it didn’t stop a few of them from kneeling to pay their last respects to their comrades in arms. Rytlock placed his paw on the helmet of one blood legion soldier whose torso had been savaged at the waist. He gripped his own hip with the other paw in sympathy for the soldier’s missing lower half.

“Tribune, don’t make any sudden movements,” Trahearne calmly advised from his position. “We’ve walked into a trap.” 

Rytlock turned to question this advice, but as soon as he moved, a hand clamped tightly around his ankle. The fallen soldier at his knees had awoken, its sightless eyes wide and its mouth opening in a silent scream.

All around the squad, the corpses of the fallen soldiers stirred with increasing vigor. It looked as if they were waking up from a grisly nap, unbothered by any wounds they’d sustained. The charr soldiers caught off guard by the ambush panicked and stumbled across the field to get away. Sieran was ready as the undead rose to their feet and gave chase. With a slash of her dagger level to the ground, she cast an ice field crackling across the grass. The charr made it to safety but the undead, slightly less coordinated, slipped into each other and fell prone on the ice.

More undead arose, tumbling out of the woods in increasing ranks. Orin acted quickly, casting a wall of dark flames to block their path like she had seen Trahearne do back in the ice caverns. When necessity called for it, she could concentrate on holding the wall a bit longer. The undead that tried to pass through it howled as their bodies were set aflame with green fire and turned back into the safety of the woods.

“Look alive, soldiers!” Rytlock bellowed, as he swung Sohothin and brought it down in a fiery burst on the undead soldier at his feet. He shook the severed hand’s grip from his leg. “We’re surrounded.”

Even with the forewarning they had, their spells weren’t enough to significantly slow the attackers. Soon, they weren’t just seeing undead charr on the offense. Orin noticed numans, asura, even norn among their ranks, charging out of the treeline.

“Trahearne,” Orin called as Rytlock motioned for the soldiers to circle up. They bunched together with their weapons facing outward at the advancing undead. “Now might be a good time to use the canister.”

The bone fiend Trahearne commanded disappeared among the ankles of a group of risen. Seconds later, an explosion blasted the risen in all directions and peppered them with shards of the fiend’s own skeleton. The necromancer exhaled and nodded. “It’s not the ideal situation, but I suppose we have no choice.”

Trahearne tossed the bag from his shoulder to Orin. She tried to remember how Grough had used it years ago as she slid the device out of the bag and into her hand. There hadn’t been time to test it like she had hoped. She turned it over, tapping the top of it with her hook, searching for a button or lever. Anything that would activate it.

“Look out!” a soldier had shouted a second too late. Orin looked up from the canister just as a risen charr swung the blunt side of its axe into her arm. She howled as she was knocked to the ground. The canister flew out of her hand and landed on the grass, rolling far from anyone’s reach. Still, nothing happened to activate it. She heard Trahearne cry out.

Thinking fast, Orin rolled out of the way of another attack from the risen charr’s axe. It slammed down into the dirt where her head had been seconds before and stuck fast. Orin seized the opportunity. She extended a hand and with her spectral grasp, pulled the canister skidding across the grass and into her hand. She whooped in triumph.

Trahearne appeared from a green fog next to her and, wielding his focus, called down a cloud of swarming black locusts onto Orin’s attacker. Within seconds, there was nothing but rotten bones left of the charr as the satiated swarm dispersed. “Are you okay?”

Orin shook her arm out and winced. It felt bruised, but nothing too serious. “I’ll be fine,” she said through heavy breaths. “But you have to teach me how to do that.”

“You already know more than you think,” he replied. With a tap from his focus, the canister lit up with vibrant white light. Immediately, Orin saw it attract the attention of the risen. They stopped fighting Rytlock and his squad and snapped their heads in the direction of the device. The charr were stunned themselves as the undead completely lost interest in them. The tribune took this opportunity to cleave the heads off the ones that had been assaulting him and spat on the bodies as they fell.

“That’s for my soldiers,” he growled.

Trahearne waved the canister above his head, taunting them. He cracked into a wild grin Orin had never seen before. “Look, Orin. They’re…mesmerized.” 

They didn’t seem to like being teased. With a deafening roar, they all charged for the sylvari at once.

Panicked, Orin snatched the canister from Trahearne’s hand and threw it with all her strength. The gaze of the undead followed it as it arced through the air and back over the other side of the hill. Trahearne was still spellbound as he watched the hoard divert their course to follow the canister.

On cue, flashes of blue light revealed ghostly figures materializing on the hilltop. They appeared one by one and leapt into the scrambling mass of undead, cleaving their spectral weapons through them with ease.

Rytlock shouted at them, taking the brief respite to regroup as the last of the undead charged after their comrades. “I don’t know what you two did, but I’m glad you did it.”

Orin and Trahearne looked at each other, their lips cracking into frantic smiles as the heat of battle subsided. Nothing needed to be said between them. Their joy was tangible. It hadn’t all been a waste of time. “It worked!” gasped Trahearne.

“Wait. They’re heading back this way,” Rytlock interrupted, waving Sohothin in front of them in a defensive stance. 

Cresting the hill, the tangle of writhing risen moved slowly back down into the valley. Like rats trying to climb out of a pit, the undead clawed over each other, trying to reach and grab for the canister held aloft by a risen norn in the center. He fought off his own allies viciously for awhile until he was finally pulled under the stamping feet of the group and another undead, foaming at the mouth, grabbed the canister from him. The attacks of the ghosts that massed around the risen, however, did not seem to faze them at all. Undead that were cut down by ghostly blades still struggled across the grass to rejoin the mass if they retained at least their heads and a few limbs to pull themselves along.

Orin glanced at Trahearne whose expression had soured, her stomach sinking from what she had seen. “This isn’t right,” she mumbled, gripping her daggers tightly. “Shouldn’t they be fighting back against the ghosts?”

A deep, booming voice that echoed across the plains startled everyone. “Ignore this inconvenience. Zhaitan’s hunger can wait on the artifact. Now, the dragon demands their sacrifice to feed his army.”

The treeline shook violently and thuds rumbled through the ground. Orin felt it through the pads of her feet. The undead responded by immediately standing at attention, the glowing canister soon forgotten as they let it drop onto the ground. Even the ghosts whose ferocity never ceased, paused their onslaught to observe the new threat. Something big was coming. 

Trees snapped like twigs as Orin saw the biggest undead creature she had ever seen rumble out of the woods. Trahearne shouted something, but Orin was transfixed. The creature was horrible and huge. It had a tiny, skull-like head at the top of its gargantuan frame, lacking any visible jaw. It’s mouth, it seemed, had been relocated to a massive, toothed slit across its wide stomach. She could have sworn she saw its torso grinning in amusement that it had caught them.

“Rytlock, stand down!” Trahearne called. His voice cracked as he yelled, betraying his own terror.

The charr was already prepping himself for a fight. “What? We’ve got to kill that thing!”

“We can’t fight this with our numbers! This is one of Zhaitan’s most powerful minions!”  
The troops stood their ground awaited further orders from their tribune, though they were clearly shaking in terror and longing to obey the orders of the sylvari scholar.

Rytlock glared a challenge at the abomination, gritting his teeth. Orin knew asking a commander to retreat was often a futile effort, but was amazed as Rytlock spun on his heel. “Fall back, double-time! Enemies on all sides. Cut through what you can’t run away from.” 

As soon as Rytlock gave the order, the giant undead opened its “mouth” in a gargantuan roar and the undead flooded toward them. The ghosts, followed suit, charging to attack anything that got in their way. Orin dashed through the troops on all fours and snatched Sieran onto her back once again. Trahearne ran ahead of Rytlock, summoning as many small bone fiends as he could to serve as distractions. The tribune snarled and slashed at any risen who managed to run too close to his soldiers. Behind them, they could feel the rumbling footsteps of the horrible creature following them and catching up.

A wall of flames roared up suddenly in their path. The company skidded to a halt as the intense heat singed their whiskers and leaves. Orin whirled around to see the wall extending outward rapidly in a ring, trapping them in with their attackers.

“Sieran, what are you doing?!” accused Trahearne in a panicked tone. 

The magister raised her hands from Orin’s mane. “It’s not me!”

The charr soldiers formed a circle within their firey prison and slashed at ghost and risen alike. Orin watched as the massive undead lumbered over to the canister. It picked it up, making it look like nothing more than a toy in its hands. The slit in its belly opened and it tossed the canister in like a snack, devouring it.

“No…” Orin whimpered. “All we’ve done is feed it.”

Rytlock leapt to the head of the group. “Alright, Trahearne, we tried your plan. Now it’s time to – what the?”

A sudden firey impact to the side of the creature’s head sent it reeling. Orin recognized the burning, wooden combatant that had appeared in the ring of fire and delivered a blow with one of its fists. An equally massive effigy of the Flame Legion.

Rytlock pounced on his chance while the undead were distracted by the effigy assaulting their leader. He brought Sohothin around in an arc, slicing through the dumbstruck crowd of risen and ghosts and taking nearly a dozen out in the one swing. “Flame Legion, too? Great.”

Sieran shouted to him from Orin’s back, pointing at the effigy. “See! It wasn’t me.”

The charr troops followed Rytlock’s lead and cleared the attackers surrounding them away as the effigy continued its assault on the mawed giant. It landed blow after firey blow on the creature, causing it to stagger back in pain.

Trahearne stood still through all of this. Usually quick to act, the sylvari appeared frozen, eyes locked on the monster. His face was pale and he seemed to be muttering to himself. Orin saw the hand holding his focus trembling limply at his side. She felt all the morale drain out of her. He wouldn’t even look her way.

As it took a nasty blow from the effigy that knocked it prone, the massive risen shouted from its torso, “Enough! Zhaitan is not finished in Ascalon. It will devour everything in its path. Including you.” It pointed ominously at the hulking effigy that was winding up for another heavy blow. 

Like Trahearne had done many times before, the risen vanished in a much larger cloud of black smoke. The effigy’s strike uselessly hit the dirt and scattered soil everywhere.

Orin drew her daggers and set Sieran down, readying herself to fight the effigy. It turned its head toward her slowly with the eerie sound of crackling wood, but it didn’t attack.

The walls of flame surrounding them extinguished as the soldiers dispatched the remaining undead. They seemed more disorganized as their commander vanished, some trying to run away now that their escape route was open. Rytlock dealt with the ghosts easily, crushing them like common pests. 

“Trahearne!” Sieran sprinted over to him as he dropped to his knees. She grabbed him by the shoulders initially, but pulled them away when she realized he was shaking. “Trahearne, it’s okay. We all survived.”

“We failed, Sieran. I put you both in danger for nothing.” His face was drawn into a grimace, struggling to contain the agony of his shame. “That was the Mouth of Zhaitan. It’s here in Ascalon to consume magical artifacts, but the ghosts can’t stop it. They won’t even be able to slow it down.”

Orin hung her head and stared at the ground. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. If he was responsible for putting them all in danger, so was she. And when Smodur found out what had happened here, she would have to answer for it.

Orin’s ears twitched as she heard twigs snap from the direction of the forest. Everyone was on high alert once more, readying weapons. Orin clenched her fist and summoned her green flames between her fingers.

A small band of charr emerged from the woods, unarmed and their paws in the air. They were Flame Legion, probably only one warband as far as Orin could tell from their numbers. “Hold your fire. We are not here to attack you,” the leader said. His voice was smooth and level, indicating he was in control of the situation.

Rytlock snorted. “Then what’s your business here? I don’t have time for any games right now.” He made a point not to lower his sword.

The legionnaire waved his hands dismissively and nodded toward the effigy. “I assume the undead have been a nuisance for you as much as they have been for us.” The other members of the warband knelt in a line behind their leader as he continued to slowly approach. 

“That’s close enough, cub,” Rytlock declared. 

The charr obeyed, stopping next to the effigy. His reddish fur glowed under the light of the burning construct, but with a snap of his claws, he extinguished the flames on it, disarming it to show he was no threat. “Of course.”

“State your name and rank.”

“My name is…” The charr paused, as if the words were caught in his throat. Orin flinched as his eyes bore into her. His pupils dilated so widely she could see them even from her distance, and deep within her she felt a sense of recognition welling up. “Orin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been fun! Really fun! 
> 
> I wasn't able to get this chapter up before I went to Canada, so I am sorry you had to wait extra long. I'll probably have the next one up by Wednesday next week. 
> 
> Strangely enough, I have kind of a problem writing gore, especially in this chapter, because body horror is the one thing that really squicks me out. 
> 
> Of course I decided to write a fic about zombies.
> 
> In other news, Path of Fire is out in almost two weeks!!! Woo!!!


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